


Vhenan Aravel - Part 1 "Origins"

by eatenbydragons



Series: Vhenan Aravel [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Abuse, Adventure, Angst, Drama, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Romance, Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:19:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 52
Words: 342,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatenbydragons/pseuds/eatenbydragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raviathan Tabris, a city elf with too many secrets and regrets, undergoes a long journey in order to find his way in the world. Part 1 is a Blight fic with many additions and some twists to the canon story. </p><p>Contains very adult themes. There is a bit of fluff here and there, but this is a dark fantasy. Be prepared.</p><p>Will attempt to post on alternate Thursdays in order to keep my updates regular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Married Life - Childhood's Ending

The predawn light added a grey wash to the apartment, one of the highest in the alienage. Raviathan sat across from his father, Cyrion, over a breakfast of oats and a boiled egg each. The other two chairs tucked in at the table hadn’t been used for years, their presence a silent echo of loved ones lost. The memory of Adaia and Solyn lingered in the room like the last notes of music that continued to reverberate in the mind after the instrument had stopped playing. 

Heat from the ancient iron stove took the worst of the chill from the air, but the bite of winter never truly disappeared. Reinforced beams secured their home to the looming wall that surrounded the alienage and allowed for enough stability to keep the precious stove without caving the wooden floor. Even so, the whole apartment structure trembled during the spring storms like a frail grandmother with a chill. After years of abuse from the harsh Fereldan winters, a network of cracks covered the old plaster walls. 

"Son, I want to talk to you about something important." With iron grey hair and a set of fine lines etched on his care worn face, Cyrion’s resigned air made the elf look even older than he was.

"Yes, Father?" Though still touched with sleep, Raviathan's voice was resonant and clear, ranging from a dark tenor to a baritone depending on his mood. Though his voice could be heard throughout the alienage when he chose to, his normal tone tended towards soft spoken.

Rubbing the last remnants of sleep from his eyes, Cyrion said, "It is time you became an adult. As such, I have found a wife for you."

For a moment, Raviathan couldn’t breathe. He had known this day would come, but he hadn't expected it so soon after his eighteenth birthday. Though technically of age to become an adult among his kin, Raviathan thought he would still have a few more years as was common practice. The mere thought of a wife caused his chest to tighten with anxiety. "Father, I don't want to be married."

"I know it's daunting," Cyrion said with a gentle smile, "but it's for the best. In any case, there's no arguing with it. The dowry has been paid."

"You already paid the dowry for her?" It was done then, Raviathan thought. Unless there was some grave reason for one of them to turn down the marriage, one that would ruin either of their reputations, he would be handfasted when she arrived and officially married on the Summerday Annum four months away. First Day Annum was in a few days, far too early for the Chantry permits to be processed. But if his father grew impatient, he might push them to marry on the Wintersend Annum in a month.

"I had some money I've been saving for this," Cyrion said.

The money must have been saved when his aunt, Solyn, was alive. Since her death two years ago, finances had grown tighter. How long had his father been planning this? Raviathan hadn't even known his father had employed a shaddain, the matchmakers who travelled between the various alienages to negotiate for a family. The rushed marriage meant Raviathan’s position in the alienage remained uncertain even after years of good behavior. 

Cyrion continued, "I received word yesterday that she will be arriving early. I planned on telling you last night, but you didn't return home until late."

It was a small admonishment, but Raviathan was certain his father was unaware of his current activities. Years ago when rumors of his indiscretions had nearly cost him his standing in the alienage, Raviathan had taken steps to find more discreet partners. His father probably thought Raviathan had been working late at Alarith's shop, helping at the orphanage, or celebrating with his cousins. Though the rumors had lessened, apparently it wasn't enough. "Why is she coming early?"

"Oh, who knows," Cyrion replied. "It could be her parents were worried about the weather, or there could be trouble in the Highever alienage. She should be here this afternoon."

Short of running off to find the Dalish, Raviathan saw no way out of this situation. Finding the Dalish was a fantasy for many young alienage elves and often the subject of games played out in back alleys. Legends had built the Dalish to mythological status among their city elf cousins, as fantastic as dragons or griffins. Two years ago, Raviathan had come close to sneaking out of the city to find them, but thoughts of his father had stopped him. It felt like a betrayal to a father lost in mourning. Still stunned by the news, Raviathan asked, "What's she like?"

"That's my boy.” Cyrion smiled. “Her name is Nesiara, and she's very pretty. I knew you'd ask. According to the shaddain, she's supposed to be a veritable genius with crafts."

"Thank you, Father. I appreciate what you've done for me." Raviathan responded automatically as he took in the news. His cousin Soris was five months older and wasn't betrothed yet. Why the rush to wed me, Raviathan wondered. Only orphans were hurried out this soon after their coming of age. Valendrian was often hard pressed to find a match as soon as possible in order to relieve the cost of keeping up the orphanage.

Cyrion patted his son's knee as he got up to leave, then hesitated and sat back down. The lines in his forehead grew more pronounced as he added, "One more thing. It's best not to mention any of your training, the martial arts and sword play, and especially your… other training." 

Though always nervous about Solyn’s arts, his father’s fear turned to intolerance after she had been killed. Now Cyrion wouldn't even let Raviathan work as an herbalist, though the alienage needed those skills desperately. In the face of his father’s orders, Raviathan had become one of the alienage's hidden secrets.

Once alone Raviathan washed the dishes, locked up, and left for Alarith's store. He wound his way through the labyrinth of hallways and stairs that led from their apartment to the street. The corridors were narrow allowing only one elf to pass comfortably through at a time. Should two need to pass, they would have to press their backs up against the wall and step sideways past one another in a dance so familiar the steps became automatic. 

Occasional small windows shed light on the uneven stairs, but the lack of glass made the building drafty. Raviathan knew immediately when he passed an outer wall as the air chilled and plaster became damp. Frost left white marks along the windowsills and wooden floor.

Having lived here his whole life, he didn't see the mold stains in the plaster or cracks that exposed the wood underneath. It was as it had always been. His apartment building wasn't the best in the alienage, but it was better than most and the high walls allowed for privacy. 

As Raviathan walked, he felt the city beginning to wake. The crisp stillness in the air was broken by a few ragged dogs salvaging scraps and cats hunting for mice. An animal's final shriek followed a metallic snap. His own family hadn't been so desperate to feed on rats, but winters were hard and more than a number of elves took to eating alley vermin. An occasional light drifted out of apartment windows, a small yellow glow from a dirty, frost coated window marking waking life. Servants and workers were getting ready to leave now that the gates were creaking open. Raviathan shivered in the cold as he headed down the street.

There had been slushy half frozen rain three days ago. Mud puddles frozen in the morning chill pocketed the earthen streets. One large puddle was so persistent that all attempts to keep it filled with dirt had failed. Old boards were placed across it to allow passage, but still water bred disease. This winter had been unusually mild so far with no snow or sludge, just frost coating the morning. 

Alarith's store was located in one corner of the alienage square, the only place behind the high walls that had the luxury of paved stones. Worn and cracked, the stones were almost lost in the dirt. The winter solstice had just passed and the new year was about to begin. Raviathan thought it was odd the new year started six days after the solstice, but who knew why the days were marked as they were. 

The vhenadahl, the great tree that was the reminder of their heritage, stood strong and graceful in the center of the square. The townspeople had decorated the tree in grand regalia for the coming annum. The vibrant red and green paint on the tree seemed even brighter amongst all the brown and grey, the one thing in the alienage everyone took pains to care for. Ornaments hung from the lowest branches along with little paper prayers that would dissolve in the rain. 

Raviathan glanced toward the platform at the other end of the square. On the annum, Salia would stand there and marry Redden, a young man from Amaranthine. Over the last few years, he had watched many of his former lovers marry on that stage. He was glad Salia was staying in Denerim. Most women left the alienage for their matches. As with all of his relationships, their time together had been short, but they had remained friends when it was over. Redden's exuberance paired well with her quiet confidence, and Raviathan had enjoyed spending time getting to know the new elf. The platform was a place for celebration, but when he examined it now all he felt was quiet trepidation.

As the first one awake in the morning, Raviathan unlocked the store and began cleaning. Thankful for the time alone to think, Rav reflected on his father's decision. Why rush his marriage? Compared to what little he knew of humans, elves had strict rules concerning children and romance. There was a fine line between the natural affection elves shared and what was considered too much for a child to engage in. A romantic kiss would result in lectures and adults glowering at the offenders for weeks. Two children who engaged in sex would shame the families. If exile wasn't called for, it made finding a match for the offenders difficult. Exorbitant dowries had to be paid to marry those children off, and it hurt the chances of any siblings no matter how pure they were.

Those rumors were the main reason he had turned his attention to three widows two years ago. They had been more of a challenge to seduce as they were reluctant to have sex with a child, but after a month of casual flirting and then another month of serious flirting, he had found peaceful arrangements with each of them. He wasn't certain whether they knew about one another or not, but he did know that they had no illusions about marriage or love. The relationships were purely physical, interspersed with the occasional interesting conversation. Over the years Raviathan had come to realize how unfair life was for them. They were beautiful women, but because of their age, late thirties and forties, they would never be able to remarry. He liked their competence and smart conversation. Compared to the insecurities and jealousies of the girls his age, these women possessed a refreshing confidence. If all that hadn't been enough, the older women were discreet.

As elves had a low birth rate, his partners were generally safe, and he knew how to keep a pregnancy from continuing. He'd only had to do that once, thankfully, three years ago. It was in both of their interests as they would be sent away from the alienage in exile once the news got out, and it would be impossible for her to find a job with the complication of a child. Exile left an elf to the winds of fate, most of which ended at a brothel. Raviathan knew a few boys who had struggled only to realize that their only recourse was to be had by anyone who had the coin to buy their bodies. Single mothers were often forced into the same profession when a husband could not be secured or their combined income wasn't enough. He and Fenella spoke little to each other for months after she had drunk the tea.

Having a baby was not practical, they both knew that, but the idea of a child held a second unrealized future for Raviathan. He had thought about it for weeks as he waited late into the night for sleep to claim him. He thought about the child often. A child to care for, to hold when she cried, to change diapers, it filled him with a longing he had never known. He felt it pull in his chest. How would it feel to touch his baby's skin as he washed her? To lie on the floor playing and tickling the small body as she giggled? To see her laugh? Would his child have his mother's eyes? How would it feel to gaze upon his baby's face? In time, he and Fenella renewed their friendship but never became intimate again.

He thought about the relationships of his past as he dusted the shelves and checked that everything was stocked correctly. Many names and faces flashed through his memory, some stronger than others. Fenella. Sharra. Lorian. Poor Jaslyn. That was one of the few that he truly regretted, though Desha and Pauler were still painful. He hadn't felt shame for most of his actions, but he did with those two. It was a shame that had gotten worse as time went on and the consequences continued to grow darker. It wiggled in his gut, eating him from the inside out. With a marriage, there was a loss of freedom, but as he reflected on his past, he thought perhaps it might not be so bad. Left to his own devises, he had been hurting people. Sometimes badly. It wasn't fair to them. Still, he wished he could choose his own wife. And have a bit more warning.

She's probably just as nervous as I am, he thought. She was leaving behind everything she knew. All of her support- her friends and family. She would be lonely for a while until she made new friends. Giving up your family though. That had to be the hardest part. The elves who came to the alienage sometimes talked about that, how odd it was to be in a new community. It was hard for Raviathan to imagine not seeing his cousins' faces every day. That realization hit him as he swept the main floor. Giving up everything you knew must incredibly lonely. He let that thought settle into his mind.

Alarith walked in, bringing with him a gust of cold morning air. "Morning," he called in a light tenor with a hint of husk. The shopkeeper was from Tevinter, an escaped slave just as his mother and aunt had been. They all shared the same dusky skin tone, though Alarith's hair was carrot red and his eyes a pale blue.

"Morning."

Raviathan sat on a stool behind the counter and examined the supply ledger while Alarith checked the inventory in the back pantry. "Huh. We still haven't gotten that order for eggs in yet. The supplier hasn't come by, has he?"

"I haven't seen him," Raviathan answered.

"Then I might have an errand for you this afternoon if he doesn't show."

Raviathan flipped through Alarith's stock records, searching for the last delivery. Not only was the farmer becoming inconsistent, eggs had been getting steadily more expensive than usual. "I'll see what I can do, but I might be busy later."

Alarith leaned his head back out of the small stock room. "Oh yeah? What sort of mischief are you getting into this time?"

Raviathan smiled at the light teasing. He'd used Alarith as a cover story more than once, but it had been some time since he and his cousins had gotten into mischief. "My wife is supposed to be coming today."

The rest of Alarith's body appeared as he gave the younger elf his full attention. "Oh yeah?" He tousled Raviathan's shoulder length black hair. "So you're going to be an adult after all. I'm surprised it came this quickly."

Raviathan batted the hand away. "You and me both. Any idea why?"

Alarith leaned against the door sill of the stockroom and folded his arms across his chest. Under Alarith's steady gaze, Raviathan's eyes dropped, and he fidgeted with a quill. Alarith sighed. "You know you've been making people nervous for years."

"I know," Raviathan admitted. "But I thought things were getting better. I've been trying."

"You have, but I've also had to defend you a number of times. Those parents who had every right to be upset. If one girl had come forward- just one-I don't know that Valendrian would have been able to save you. Come to think of it, I'm not surprised Cyrion found a bride for you so quickly," Alarith said starting to gain momentum.

Raviathan suppressed a sigh and put his head down while the lecture continued. Alarith was right. As was his father. Raviathan only hoped he'd be able to talk to Miram and Bethany before his bride arrived. He had said goodbye to Irianna a week ago. After her daughter died from complications of pneumonia, her son in law had asked if she would be willing to move to South Reach to take care of her two grandchildren. The youngest was only a few months old. Raviathan couldn't imagine the pain his lover had gone through. It had been painful enough for him to listen to her recount memories, her daughter's favorite stories and songs, embarrassing and sweet moments. The child she raised with love and care had died far from the home she'd grown up in and the family she had loved. He had held his lover for hours while she cried wishing he could share the burden with her; anything to lighten her sorrow. He held her and rocked her, listened patiently, and gave all the tenderness he had. It was terribly insufficient, but he hadn't known what else to do.

"…and you should be grateful," Alarith finished.

"Yes ser."

The older elf snorted. "Can't remember the last time you called me ser." Raviathan gave him a halfhearted smile and Alarith sighed. "I think your father knows that you've been practicing medicine."

"I'm not sure," Raviathan said and chewed his lip. "He doesn't want me to tell my betrothed."

Alarith ran a hand through his hair. "You have to tell her. She'll find out eventually, and it'll be better if it comes from you. And," he added hesitantly, "she needs to know what that might entail." Raviathan stayed very still. It was dangerous to bring Solyn up. As far as he knew, Alarith hadn't even spoken Solyn's name since the two years following her death. Raviathan's father had been the same after his mother had died. "I think Cyrion turned a blind eye because he knew you needed some support. It would have killed him if you were exiled."

"Alarith," Raviathan asked quietly, "how close was I? To exile."

The older elf bit his lips and fixed his eyes on the floor. "It… well it doesn't matter now," Alarith said. His tone had brightened to Raviathan's relief. Talking about the rumors that had almost exiled him was shaming enough. It was embarrassing that so many here had guessed what he was up to. He had been the one in the wrong, but the their judgment still felt invasive. How disappointed where the people who loved him? In a way, Alarith felt like a dirty little secret, an adult forced to lie for him out of love for his aunt. He knew and had acted as his cover, but his father, Valendrian- how much had he failed them? Thinking back on the conversation with his father that morning, he realized he had acted like a spoiled shem. Raviathan had to consider his betrothed, and his father, whose name he'd been bringing down with his actions all these years, had remained patient and supportive. "You're getting married, and all of that's in the past. So. Tell me what you know about her."

This was a chance to be someone better. "Father didn't say much. She's from Highever. Good at crafts." At Alarith's questioning half smirk, Raviathan added with a suppressed smile of his own, "She's supposed to be pretty."

"Sounds like things could be worse."Alarith said, and Raviathan had to agree. "Have you figured out what you're going to do for a living? I'd love to hire you here, but there isn't enough work to support a family."

Raviathan shrugged. He knew that. After Soris was orphaned, Raviathan's family had helped support the orphanage. Raviathan's job at the store gave them a discount on food- and held the added benefit of letting Raviathan read anything Alarith stocked- but there was little need for him other than the occasional errand, daily cleaning, and bookkeeping. Even though Alarith had the only general store in the alienage, the store was small and the bookkeeping was light. Alarith detested dealing with numbers however and was more than happy to train Raviathan. "I'm not sure. I think my father wants me to apprentice as a carpenter."

"Not interested?"

A rage flashed in Raviathan's eyes and his mouth became stern. "That shem he works for is an ass." He had only been to Bann Rodolf's estate once, but once was enough. He hated the way the lazy chamberlain had talked to his father. His father was wise and patient and that idiot shem was constantly berating him. The insults had rung in Raviathan's ears for days. More than anything, it had shamed him to watch the human yank his father's ear just because one of the servants hadn't bleached the sheets properly. He'd turned away from the sight, as a dull sympathy ache panged his own ear. He shook with rage as he stalked away from the estate. He'd never spoken about that day to anyone.

Alarith said with a laugh, "You say that about all the shems."

Raviathan glowered down at the ledger. "Show me a shem who isn't a complete bastard, and I'll show you one who's just better at hiding behind a pedigree. Worthless is a step up for them."

"They're not all that bad," countered Alarith. "That Bann he works for… what was his name?"

"Bann Rodolf?"

"Yeah. He's a good sort." Raviathan rolled his eyes with a snort. Alarith let the younger elf's insolence go as he continued. "You could always become an herbalist."

"No. I told you. Father barely allows that now. After I'm wed, he'll forbid it entirely."

The comment fell on a silent room. They both knew why. What had happened to Solyn could easily happen to him though only Cyrion understand the full danger as Raviathan did.

Alarith had cared for Solyn deeply, enough that he was considering asking Valendrian's permission to marry her. It was very unusual to take a woman in her late thirties, but he had loved her. Still loved her. Raviathan remembered their subtle flirtations. As soon as he was old enough to understand, Raviathan had given his aunt a meaningful glance when she and Alarith returned home after an evening together. They claimed they were out purchasing her equipment, but Raviathan new better. Solyn had ignored the glance, which had only amused Raviathan further. After that, he had begun teasing her mercilessly, enough that she slapped his shoulder once when they were working together, the only time she had ever hit him. They had both laughed, and Raviathan settled on amused looks whenever the two flirted after that. Raviathan had assured her that he was getting to an age when he wouldn't need her anymore; that she could soon have the life that she had sacrificed for him. Tough as she was, she had hugged him, and told him that making sure he was safe had never been a sacrifice.

As he emerged from his brief reverie, Raviathan noted the sorrow that still affected Alarith at any mention of her. Her death nearly two years ago had hurt them both to the core. He chuckled to lighten the conversation. "I could always become a servant for some Bann."

"Yes, and the halls would run red by the end of the day," Alarith laughed trying to put the memories of Solyn behind him.

Raviathan rubbed his forehead. "I don't know. There isn't enough work in the alienage to support me." He scoffed, "I could always take in laundry. Otherwise it's the docks, or serving pompous shems, or working for them." He put his heel up on the stool and hugged his leg. "I guess the docks feel most honest. At least I don't expect civility there."

"You can't work at the docks," Alarith said. "You're too smart for that."

Raviathan frowned. "So all the elves that work there are worthless?"

Alarith gave an exasperated sigh. "You know that's not how I feel. Don't put words in my mouth."

"You're the one who said I'm too smart for that," Raviathan accused.

"The docks are for unskilled workers when nothing else is available. You are well spoken and can learn any trade you set your mind to. Why not take up an apprenticeship?"

"I can't be a servant," Raviathan said. "I can't let some shem scream insults at me all day long. I know I need to provide for my family, but it would kill me to put my head down and let them treat me like trash."

Alarith returned from the pantry and set a bag of oats on the center display. "Say that when your family is hungry."

"You're the one saying no to the docks. If that's what it takes, I'll be willing to do it."

Alarith spread one arm wide in indignation, and placed the other on his hip. "You think they're going to be nicer at the docks?"

"Of course not!" Raviathan shot back. "But a lord should know how to treat people. They're supposed to be educated. They have all the advantages in life but look how they treat us. We're scum to them. Yeah, I know the docks are rough, but they treat everyone like scum, not just the elves." And I don't expect anything more, he added to himself.

Alarith sighed. "It doesn't have to be so final. There really are humans out there that aren't so bad. If you earned enough, you could open up a shop here."

Bitterness laced Raviathan's voice. "How many elves have been able to get the capital to own their own shops?"

Before Alarith could answer, Nola walked in. She was a fair elf with dark hair and was rather pretty in her own shy way. Though she was the same age as Raviathan, the two never spent much time together. She was too passive for him to bother tolerating her overly pious attitude. Alarith called out, "Morning Nola. Anything you need today?"

"Oh. I am supposed to get more soap for my mother," she mumbled.

Alarith pulled a box down from a top shelf. "Seems like she's getting a lot of orders for laundry lately."

"Oh. Yes. One of the Market women has been sick lately." She glanced at Raviathan and then quickly away. "Um, how are things with the store?"

"The usual," Alarith replied. "Although I'm going to need a new assistant soon."

"Oh?" Nola flicked another glance at Raviathan.

"That'll be fifty bits. Yep. My old one is getting married. If your brother is interested in the job, send him my way."

Nola bobbed her head and hurried out. Alarith chuckled as he put the coins away, and Raviathan scratched the transaction in the ledger. "There's going to be a lot of that the next few weeks."

"What, looking for my replacement? I'm surprised you want one."

"Hey," he replied, "I've gotten used to sleeping in a little. But that's not what I mean. I can almost hear all those hearts breaking."

Raviathan gave him a skeptical smile. "What are you on about?"

Alarith replied in a falsetto, "Oh. He's getting married? Oh. Maker, make his wife be lost at sea. Oh. Maker, make me his bride to be."

Raviathan ducked his head to hide a smile. Alarith had captured Nola's constant habit of praying all too well. "Don't be ridiculous. Nola and I never even talk."

"Why do you think that is?" Alarith laughed. "She gets all flustered around you." He turned serious as he fixed Raviathan with a look. "If you've done half of what I suspect, I'm surprised half the parents in the alienage haven't added something to your dowry."

Raviathan busied himself with reviewing Alarith's books. "I'm getting married, so no one needs to worry anymore."

Letting the subject go, Alarith pulled a wooden box full of vegetables and a small sack of flour from the stockroom. "This goes to the orphanage today."

"I'll be back for that soon. I have a few errands to run first." Alarith glared at him, and Raviathan raised a hand in placation. "Nothing bad."

Alarith harrumphed but said no more.

Taking that as acquiescence, Raviathan left the store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews and comments welcome.


	2. Married Life – Mellifluous Reflections

Dawn was just breaking, shading the grey sky with a band of pink. Workers trudged in a steady procession of ones and twos to the gates, rubbing the sleep from half opened eyes. A few nodded Raviathan's way as they travelled along, but most ignored him. Raviathan headed down the main street, up two side streets, then through a wide alley. There was no order to the buildings in the alienage aside from the mutually agreed upon square and main road. Buildings just popped up wherever someone chose to live.

The farther from the square and the Market entrance, the shabbier the homes became. He passed a new home that had been erected about a year ago by an older couple who no longer had children living with them. It was a lean to, a few worn boards scavenged from the city and tacked on to an existing home. Raviathan expected that in ten years, the alley would be half its current width with a dozen similar homes added on. The shelters would become more stable as successive generations built floors and true walls. When that happened, second tiers would be added. It was how his apartment building had developed.

To Raviathan these humble new homes seemed hopeful. Families found a nitch to live in. These shelters might start off as modest, just a few boards to protect from the rain and cold, but like seeds drifting through the air, families found hold somewhere and started growing. It was the history of elves. Their homelands were taken, but the race survived. Shems said elves were like weeds, unwanted and tough to eradicate. Being called a weed was no insult. His people were resilient. Elves take the barest places and find a way to live.

The apartment he was looking for was on the other side of the alienage from his. Raviathan walked into a hallway, up a flight of stairs, and out the back where a system of scaffolding was in place. Who knew why someone hadn't occupied this area yet, but the poles and ledges were easy to climb and unused. It was the most discreet path to the apartment he sought. Down a short hall, he knocked on the familiar door.

A pale woman with very dark brown hair and shimmering dark eyes let him in. "Rav. I didn't expect you. Would you like some breakfast?"

Her voice was like rich, dark chocolate. Raviathan absolutely loved her voice. "No, no. I already ate."

"Tea then?"

"Sure." Had it been summer, she would have insisted he eat something. Toast at least. Winters were always times of conservation though. He took the other chair at the table. The kettle on top her little pot bellied stove was still steaming, and Raviathan noticed the blankets for her sleeping mat had already been stowed away. His eyes lingered there for a moment.

"I have to be at work within the hour. Perhaps…"

Raviathan nodded looking down at his hands. "Miram. I don't know how to say this tactfully." Her dark eyes went wide with alarm as she set the mug in front of him. He gave her a little smile to let her know it wasn't serious. "My father has arranged a bride for me."

Her shoulders slumped slightly in relief, which Raviathan understood well enough. If they had been found out, the consequences for her would have been worse than the exile he faced. Any adult caught having sex with a child would have their ears docked to show they were no longer elven. The former elf would then be beaten, stripped naked, and dumped in a pauper's field to be shunned by all elves for the remainder of his or her life. Miram and the others had risked everything, short of their lives, for him.

A sad half smile lifted the corners of her mouth, and she took his hand. "Well. I thought we might have another year or so, but we both knew it was coming eventually. Who paid the dowry?"

"We did."

"When will she be here?"

"Today. I just found out this morning."

"Hmm," she said starting her breakfast of toast and honey. "Seems quick."

Raviathan sighed with a nod. This was exactly why he liked the older women. No hysterics. No big scene. They were realists. He wondered what Miram had been like when she was his age. He hoped his wife would be as beautiful, capable, and compassionate. Folding his fingers together, Raviathan studied his hands. "Miram, I want to be a good husband."

She smiled and squeezed his wrist. "You will be. You've got a good heart Rav."

A drop of honey that had been on her finger stuck on his wrist in a sticky oval. He sucked it off. "I'm worried about it. What if I don't like her?"

Her dark eyes turned down as she dribbled more honey on her toast, and her smile turned mysterious. "Worry about that after you meet her."

"But…"

Dark eyes held his. "Do you love your cousins?"

"Of course."

"Did you get to choose them?"

Raviathan blew out a breath understanding her point. "But I grew up with them. We've shared everything together."

"True. And that's part of what's exciting about these matches. There's a whole person for you to get to know. There will always be a little mystery, and a lot of discovery." She studied him for a moment then said, "You know why we have arranged marriages?"

Raviathan shrugged. "To promote connections with other alienages. Keep our lines strong."

"That's part of it. Why we don't have marriages within an alienage. But one of the reasons it's arranged is that it takes away judgment." Raviathan cocked his head inviting further explanation. "You don't judge your cousins because no matter what you do, you can't change the fact that they're your cousins. It's the same with siblings. There might be some fighting, because that's how children are, but you still love them. Shems choose their own spouses, and many times they end up miserable. Not always, but they seem a lot less successful than elves. They make their choice out of infatuation or lust, but that doesn't last. When the emotions run their course, they still want that excitement, but they're stuck, and then they start to resent their spouse. They act as if they've been betrayed because they can't keep what was promised. They have all these expectations that were failed. Neither of you have any expectations. You come to each other fresh, and knowing your fate, will do your best to get along."

Raviathan smiled and squeezed her wrist, avoiding the honey on her fingers. "Good advice. But what if she doesn't like me?"

The fine lines around Miram's eyes crinkled as she smiled. "Rav, you're too damn charming when you want to be. Give her that smile, and be the sweet boy that you can be, and you've got no worries my dear."

Raviathan leaned down to kiss the top of her hand. Had he not been betrothed, he would have sucked the honey off her fingers. "Thank you," he whispered. He finished his tea while she cleaned her hands. They embraced and kissed goodbye.

"I still expect a visit now and then for tea."

"I can finally use the front entrance."

She laughed. "It'll be fine Rav." She studied him again with eyes as large and endless as the night sky. "You know, I'm grateful we had these years. You made me feel young again. And," she said wrapping one arm around him in a half embrace, "I never thought I'd feel so much like a woman again."

He stroked her cheek with his thumb and gave her one final kiss on the lips, sweet as it was light. He rested his forehead against hers. "Thank you," he whispered. When he leaned back, he studied her dark eyes for a long moment. "You're really alright?"

"Sure," she said patting his arm. "Or at least I will be soon. Not to worry."

The two of them headed in different directions down the hall. Raviathan's way was quicker, and he was already past the alley by the time she left the building, a sad but content smile on her lips.

Raviathan climbed a semi-permanent ladder to some scaffolding that the residents of the second story considered a deck. He crept across a roof top so as not to disturb the family inside then around the building. One day the scaffolding would be closed off to make proper hallways, but until then Raviathan would use it to travel between apartments. He dropped down through a small hole in the corner of the scaffolding, made a turn through the tight construction, avoiding waste puddles, and arrived at his second errand.

Bethany, a sweet faced red head, let him in. Just as with Miram, there was no drama. She smiled, quietly accepting the news, and they said a bittersweet goodbye to the relationship. When Raviathan left, jumping against the stone wall and grasping the edge of the hole to pull himself up to the deck, he felt like he had been cleansed. He walked a little straighter, his head held a little higher. Both women had been graceful and sweet, glad for the time they had and ready to move on. They were all done with the relationships they had to hide. As much as he had enjoyed his time, they had all been at risk and with risk came an undercurrent of guilt.

"Be a good husband Rav," Bethany had said. "If I knew I would only have fourteen years with my Dennin, I would have soaked up every minute we had together for all that it was worth. Look for the good, and build on that."

It was strange to feel so light. It was an odd sort of freedom, and he paused for a moment in a hidden corner between ramshackle homes and turned his face to the sun. He closed his eyes and let the sun's light wash his skin, the heat sinking in. This new freedom made him dizzy. It wasn't until that moment that he realized how oppressive all the hiding had been. Before the widows, there had been a greater chance of being found out, but with them the consequences were much worse.

The grumblings of the works leaving the alienage and the morning greetings between women drifted up from the ground below. Pregnant women and those women who remained at home took care of the young children. They traded jokes and bits of gossip between them as they went about their business. A toddler started crying, his clumsy arms reaching for his mother's retreating back. Little Terin. He was the first child Raviathan had delivered without his aunt. It had been so much scarier without her. The burden of responsibility had been solely on him, and it was one of the few times he had felt loneliness. It had been an easy delivery, thank the Maker, and when the little blue eyed boy was in his arms, that loneliness retreated. He had never felt that way since.

As he cleaned the tiny newborn, his heart had swelled just as it had when his cousin Eldwyn, the first child he had ever helped deliver, was born. It was in the moment Terin was born, healthy and whole, that Raviathan understood the protectiveness his mother and aunt had for the alienage. They were the caretakers and guardians, and it was their strength and wisdom that stood like holy pillars in his mind.

Terin quieted when his auntie Myra wiggled a little stuffed bear in front of him. The tears stopped as he reached for the bear, his auntie leading him back in to the warmth of her home. As much as he hated the rumors, his family was everything to him. How did his bride feel about leaving her home? How many people and memories was she leaving behind? Sometimes he heard stories from the other elves who travelled to Denerim, how strange a new alienage could be, how it was just familiar enough that the differences were all that more noticeable.

In some ways he would have preferred to be the one to leave for a new alienage. The idea was exciting, as was the prospect of getting away from the reputation he had. It would be a wonderful thing to start somewhere fresh and unknown where he could leave the rumors and memories behind. No matter his efforts, those rumors continued to dog him. What wouldn't he give up for a clean start? Those thoughts lasted until he thought of leaving his father and cousins behind. Raviathan wondered if his father had paid a dowry because it would be less noticeable if no one wanted to take him for a match for their daughter. Dowry prices were not discussed much, so an excessive one to make up for a possible bad match could go unnoticed.

The feeling of lightness diminished, and Raviathan started back for Alarith's shop. Whoever this Nesiara was, he hoped that she would not be too put off when she learned more about him. It was a depressing thought, and he wondered why he was so worried about what he would think of her. He was a selfish child.

"Hey, Rav," a woman whispered from her door.

He glanced at her then nonchalantly scanned the alley. Seeing no one, he ambled toward the door and slipped inside a tiny one room apartment. One wall of the home was the plaster exterior of another house, and gaps in the wood had been roughly patched or stuffed with hay muck. Sleeping mats for the couple and their child to share lay in one corner. Instead of a proper stove, they had a stone box to cook their food. Cevin, a boy of three, sat miserably on the wooden toilet.

"Thanks for coming in," Alorn said. She was pathetically thin with worn hair and worn clothes and a worn slump to her slender shoulders. "Cevin's been throwing up and having the runs since yesterday."

Raviathan knelt down in front of the boy and rested his hand against the child's head. "Hey Cevin," he said gently. "You're not feeling well?"

"No," he said in a slow whine. He panted slightly when a watery slosh came from the bucket. "Tummy hurt."

"Tummy hurts, huh?" Raviathan put a hand over his lower stomach and asked, "Does it hurt here?"

Cevin managed a 'm-hmm' and nodded. Raviathan brushed back the boy's fine hair then stood to talk to Alorn quietly. "Two days you said? He has a fever. Any other symptoms?"

Alorn crossed her arms over her stomach. "Started yesterday afternoon. He started throwing up. I wasn't sure if I should talk to you."

Nearly everyone knew about him. While he understood his father's desire for caution, there were many more times he saw it as foolish or occasionally dangerous. "It's fine. I think Cevin has a pretty common infection. Give him more water to make up for what he's losing and mix a bit of salt with it. Enough so that it tastes like a tear. Feed him in smaller meals throughout the day, and that will help when he needs to vomit. No fruit. Broth is best. If you can, give him an elfroot leaf to chew on. The infection is transferred through feces, so make sure you clean yourself and him well, and be careful how you clean the toilet so it doesn't spread. He should be fine in a few days. If not, let Alarith know and I'll make something, but I don't think that will be necessary."

"Okay," Alorn said. "So it's not serious then?"

"Well," Raviathan said. He didn't want to worry her needlessly, but there were dangers. "As long as he gets enough fluid, he should be fine. Let me know, alright?"

"Sure Rav." Alorn fidgeted then started to say, "About payment…"

Raviathan raised a hand. "Friendly advice." She always asked, and he always refused. Most others didn't bother asking even when they could afford to. Raviathan wondered if it was pride that always made her offer, but she was always relieved when he said no. Raviathan bit his lips which caught Alorn's cautious interest. "Well, perhaps you can return the favor." She raised her eyebrows in surprise. Raviathan nibbled his lip feeling shy. "Um, what was it like coming to a new alienage?"

At that Alorn gave a nervous but warm smile. "Actually, I didn't have an alienage before I came. My parents worked for a bann, in the fields. Just walking through Denerim for the first time was strange. I like it here though. Even though it was hard leaving my parents, it felt good being around other elves."

"Then how was your match arranged?"

"Valendrian." Worry tightened her forehead. "Are… are you leaving?"

"Um," Raviathan said feeling shy. "Well, my bride is arriving today. From Highever. I was just wondering what it would be like for her."

Alorn's smile took the fatigue from her face, and she hugged him. "Oh, that's wonderful."

A shy smile softened Raviathan's mouth, and he looked down at her bare feet. "Yeah. I'm just nervous."

"Don't be Rav. Things will turn out fine. One look at that face of yours and she'll be smitten for sure."

It was the closest Alorn ever got to flirting, which made Raviathan chuckle. Cevin whined, "Mommy," which ended the conversation.

"Take care Alorn. Lots of water."

"Thanks Rav," she said as she knelt to rub Cevin's belly.

Raviathan glanced out the window first, then quietly left when he was sure the alley was empty. Perhaps another reason his father wanted him to stay in this alienage was because he felt he might be able to protect his son that way. Raviathan wondered about that. He wasn't all that familiar with the templars here, but he would be lost in another alienage where he didn't know the attitudes of either the elves or the templars, or even where the local Chantry was. In another alienage, the elves wouldn't know about him though. Would he keep his secrets, or would seeing elves in need of attention eventually draw him out anyway? What would this Nesiara think? Raviathan was glad his father hadn't told him beforehand. He would have driven himself mad with questions.

Back at the shop, a few men stood together in a corner discussing tools and work opportunities that might come up with the approaching annul. They greeted him absently as he went behind the counter to wash his hands then collect the orphanage groceries. He whispered to Alarith, "Alorn's son is ill."

Alarith gave him a small nod. He had relayed messages often and kept Raviathan's medicinal goods behind the counter. "Come back later to see about that supplier."

Raviathan balanced the box on his shoulder and headed out. The orphanage was not far, just down the street from the square. Most of the workers had left for the day, but there were still many elves milling about in the bright morning sun. The southern wind that blew in with bitter frost had died down which made the winter day almost bearable. Wives and children, a few who worked in the alienage, and some who worked evenings and came during the day to visit their families milled about the square. Two elderly elves, Dyncar and Amrie, sat on the same bench they did everyday watching the same routines pass as they had for years. The two men rarely spoke, just watched everything with their wide, owl like eyes. Raviathan delivered the box of groceries to the back kitchen then left to find Soris.

"Hey, cousin," a voice greeted him from the breakfast hall.

"Hey, Soris. Are you free?"

"I have some mending to do for my chores first," said Soris giving him a hug.

"Okay."

Soris led the way knowing Raviathan would help make the work faster. They sat on the laundry room's short stools threading needles by the light from the still frosty back window. Raviathan eyed the small garden. "Elfroot is in the wrong place. It should be planted where it gets more shade. The cabbage needs more sun and protection from the morning cold. She planted them way too early. They won't last three days. If they're still alive."

"Huh. Don't tell that to Venri. She'll chew your ear off for criticizing her garden," said Soris. Though they were first cousins, Soris's father was Raviathan's uncle, no one would guess they were related. Soris had Cyrion's blue eyes and fine pale skin with auburn hair he kept very short. The only trait they shared were their soft lips, though Soris's mouth was a bit thinner.

"Doesn't make it less true." Raviathan grabbed a sock and started darning while Soris struggled with the needle.

Soris squinted with one eye shut as he tried again to thread his needle. "I've got news cousin. Valendrian has found a match for me."

Raviathan laughed. "Then we'll have a double wedding to be sure."

"Who else?"

"Who do you think cousin?" Raviathan said with a grin.

Soris dropped his needle. "You're getting married too?"

"Apparently. She's coming in from Highever. My father said she should be here today."

Soris picked up his needle but did not try to thread it again. Raviathan did not slow his fine, even stitching as he asked, "What's wrong?"

"I don't know if I'm ready for this," Soris said glumly. "I guess it's better than remaining a child though."

"Do you have a place to live?" asked Raviathan. That would be a huge concern for Soris as he would have to leave the alienage soon.

Soris sighed. "Valendrian and Uncle Cyrion will help with an apartment for a bit. I guess being a servant isn't so bad."

"You already have work?" Raviathan asked surprised.

"No, but it's that or the docks."

Raviathan shook his head as he pulled a pair of pants from the pile and looked them over. A seam had come loose. "I'd rather take the docks."

"I can't see you serving a human, that's for sure," Soris said with a laugh.

Raviathan would have asked how Soris could do that kind of work, but it was cruel to bring up bad memories. While hiding behind garbage, Raviathan had watched as Soris's parents were killed, burned in their home by guards during the last purge of the alienage. He had nightmares of Soris's mother's screams as she was kicked back into the burning house, dying far too slowly. He had held his cousin that day, tried to keep him from seeing and hearing what was going on, but there was only so much he could do, and he couldn't block out the smells of burning. His cousin had cried loudly for months on end, then years of silent tears. He switched subjects instead. "Do you know who Valendrian chose for you?"

With characteristic gloom, Soris recounted what he knew. "Her name is Valora. I haven't actually met her yet, but I heard her talking to Valendrian and Venri. She sounds like a dying mouse."

With a smirk Raviathan said, "Then I'll get you a cage as a wedding gift."

Soris barked out laughter before sobering. "Hey. That's terrible."

"Come on," Raviathan said trying to cajole his cousin into a better mood. "She can't be that bad." He picked up a shirt with a torn sleeve while Soris was still on his first sock. "Hurry up or we'll miss our own weddings."

Soris asked, "Do you know what you'll do for a living?"

Raviathan frowned, just a slight crease in his brow, "No. Alarith was asking earlier. Father refuses to let me be an herbalist openly. You know he won't let me practice medicine at all. Alarith said I should get an apprenticeship. Seems kind of late for that though." Apprenticeships usually started between twelve and fifteen, and he had been far too busy with his mother and aunt's training to even think of beginning one. The first years of an apprenticeship were also subsidized by the parents, which meant orphans were almost never able to secure one, and without a family to help in the first years, orphans were considered a difficult match at best.

"Then what?" Soris asked.

"Maybe it will be the docks then," Raviathan said. Now that the idea of marriage was settling into him, he wondered if that would be enough to support a family.

"Cousin," Soris said, the reproach clear in his voice.

"I don't mind the docks."

"It's not safe there," Soris replied.

"Oh come on Soris. Lots of elves work there."

Soris turned to fully face him, an undertone of anger in his otherwise placid voice. "You know that beggar Torries? His legs were smashed, and the dock workers just left him in an alley. It was days before his family found him and now he's a cripple."

Raviathan knew better than Soris about Torries situation but didn't say more about it. "Shems are shems everywhere. I'd rather have an enemy I know is an enemy, not like some rich shem who smiles with knives in his eyes while he yanks my ears."

"Hey now, I might resemble that remark."

Raviathan thought about his words and sighed. "You're right cousin. I'm sorry. I don't mean to put you or my father down." They finished the rest in silence.

In order to leave without the orphanage headmistress knowing, Raviathan and Soris slunk through the halls in an exaggerated espionage game. The younger orphans caught on, and Raviathan organized them like soldiers, to run diversions as he and Soris worked their way through the halls. His best little soldier, a red headed girl, got a wink and kiss on the head as the two left.

Soris burst out laughing when they were outside. "You had Venri spinning in circles. My cousin, the master tactician."

"You're not getting those kids in trouble, are you cousin?" asked a familiar voice he had known for as far back as he had memories.

Raviathan smiled as he put an arm around Shianni's shoulder. "Of course not," he said giving his cousin a kiss, and the three walked down the street.

"Hey Shianni," Soris greeted his cousin. Unlike Raviathan, these two looked like the first cousins they were. Shianni's short red hair, loose with a series of small ponytails, framed a cute face full of mischief. Soris's longer face tended to more seriousness. If he was any less pretty, he'd be downright glum. She and Soris both had pale skin as was typical of Ferelden elves but theirs appeared luminous in the indirect morning light. She had grey brown eyes with more of a shine than most elves and tended to change color depending on the light or what she wore. Her extraordinary eyes and red hair had been the source for a few crushes among the alienage boys, but she had turned them all away.

"Hey yourself," she said with laughter in her voice. "Skipping out on chores again?"

"No," Soris replied indignantly. "All finished for the day."

They made their way across the square to a vendor. Raviathan paid a copper bit for some twisted bread then they perched high on the never used scaffolding of an old apartment building overlooking the square. They sat partially in the shade of the building with their legs dangling over the side. Shianni held the bread between them as they ripped off pieces to eat.

Raviathan said, "Guess what Shianni. Soris is moving out of the orphanage."

She turned to Soris in surprise. "Really? Why?"

Soris looked down at the square. "I'm getting married." He told her what he knew about his bride and their plans for the next months of marriage before it was officiated by the Chantry.

She looked genuinely happy. "Congratulations Soris."

"You just want an excuse to drink," he muttered.

She laughed at him. "But weddings are so much fun. Music and dancing. This is a good time to get married too."

Soris looked at her, his face puckering. "Late winter? Why is that good?"

"Because we need something to distract us from the cold," she said.

Soris pulled off a hunk of bread eating with exaggerated irritation, but Raviathan laughed. "I'm glad you approve of winter weddings." She looked at him quizzically. He returned it with his own mischievous smile, "It's to be a double wedding."

She let out a little shriek and hugged him. "Oh cousin. I'm so happy for you." She nudged Soris, "Both of you."

Raviathan teased, "I think he might finally run off to join the Dalish."

"Not after that first time we tried." Soris scoffed. He turned serious at the thought. "Do you think they're real?"

"Alarith says they are," Raviathan replied. "He was rescued by a clan when he escaped from Tevinter."

Shianni narrowed her eyes at Soris. "You aren't thinking of really running off."

Soris pouted. "Honestly, I don't think they're real. Besides getting lost again? If I did try to run away I'd probably be run through by bandits."

"That's not true," Raviathan said and squeezed Soris' shoulder in sympathy. "You don't have any money. They wouldn't bother." Shianni slapped his leg, and they both laughed quietly at their gloomy cousin.

"Oh gee, thanks cousin," Soris said with mock scorn. "You seem to be taking this marriage well."

Raviathan shrugged. "I don't really want to get married, but my father put a lot of effort into arranging this. I thought about running too, but it seems cruel to abandon my bride. I can't imagine what it would be like to travel all that way to find someone would rather run than be with you."

"I think Elva's husband wishes he had run. To be stuck with her." Soris shuddered.

"That gargoyle. No matter what, our wives can't be worse than her," said Raviathan.

Shianni laughed. "That's the spirit. Better than gargoyles."

They chatted happily as they watched the elves below. A group of three men were getting drunk across the street from them and started singing comically about an affair with a mermaid. It was better than some of the drinking songs the three had heard over the years. Two children were carrying water from a nearby pump. Raviathan guessed they were either getting a bath or their mother was doing the washing. Wives carried their shopping back home for the evening meal. One had a bolt of deep wine red cloth, and he wondered if there was to be another wedding announcement.

From the scaffolding Raviathan could see the main gate of the alienage that led from Denerim's Market. Though the Market wasn't far, he almost never left the alienage. Excursions had been rare and notable, usually under the guidance of his mother or aunt. The Market was just through the gates, yet he could count the times he had visited it on one hand. From the gates a young woman with long pale blonde hair and a pack made her way timidly into the alienage. "I think that may be her."


	3. Married Life – The New Elf

Raviathan stood and picked his way carefully around his cousins before hopping down and hurrying over. Though her face and clothes were streaked with dirt from the road, her eyes puffy and her shoulders slumped with exhaustion, Raviathan thought her very attractive. Her cornflower blue eyes were striking and she had flawless, pale skin beneath the dust of the road. Her ash blonde hair was braided, making her look groomed despite her long journey. Like all elves, she was willowy with long limbs, but there was a delicacy to her features that made her seem appear daintier than most elves. Her eyes widened as he approached. Raviathan said, "Excuse me. Are you Nesiara?"

"Ah. Yes. I am" She smiled, obviously weary from the journey and intimidated by a new city.

"I'm Raviathan." He took her pack, unable to keep from staring. This was his wife. He would wake up to the sight of her face for the rest of his days. Beautiful wasn't a adequate word for her. "If you would like, I can show you to our apartment. You must be tired."

She nodded as she studied his face just as intently as he studied hers. "That would be fine."

He wanted to say something more, but was at a loss. She was tired, that much was clear. Best not to disturb her until she rested? Make a joke? Tell her how pretty she was? He hadn't been flustered around a girl in years. In the end, he led her silently up the narrow stairs. There were a few calls from neighbors as he passed. Most noticed the new elf but said nothing yet. News would get around quickly enough anyway. 

They entered the main room of his apartment, and Raviathan gestured at the comfortable chairs under the window. "Would you like some water? I can make tea, if you'd like."

She sighed, half collapsing into a chair. "Water is fine."

He brought her a glass of water, then headed up the ladder with her pack. Again, he was at a loss. Would she stay in the bunk bed with him? No. That was just silly. Would his father be bringing a new bed later? That seemed far too extravagant. He set her pack next on the floor near his trunk before heading back down.

"Would you like something to eat?" he asked.

"Sure. If it's not a problem."

Poor girl, he thought. She must be exhausted. He wondered how far away Highever was. Except for the messengers who were trained, elves were unused to long journeys. They had no cause for endurance training in an alienage that encompassed little more than a few city blocks. Although she was worn out from her journey, her voice carried with confidence. 

Raviathan added wood to the remaining embers in the stove. "No. No problem. Upstairs is the bedroom. There's some water in the tub if you would like to wash up." She took another sip of water before heading up the stairs.

Raviathan diced root vegetables, cauliflower, and potatoes to sauté, sliced in some dried meat for flavor, added a few spices and herbs he got from working in an old granny’s garden, then put the pot on for tea. He mixed rose hips, chamomile, the last of the ginseng –which was an expensive import, and motherwort for her tea, hoping the mix would relax her after the long journey. The bread was a day old, but if he toasted it with a little garlic butter, it might not be so bad. Last, he added yogurt heavily spiced with garlic, ginger, cumin, pepper paste, and turmeric to the sautéing vegetables to make a sauce. Their yogurt was running low, so he reminded himself to buy some milk from Alarith to make more. 

Nesiara climbed down the ladder and took her seat at the table. Water droplets darkened her dress in random patches. She looked refreshed, her natural beauty restored. He smiled as he set the meal down in front of her, then added two plates and forks. She took a bite then smiled in surprise. "You can cook."

"My grandmother worked in a lord's kitchen. She taught me some simple things." He shrugged, grinning, a little embarrassed by the complement. "I'm glad you like it." 

They each ate a few more bites before she broke the silence. "Raviathan?"

"Everyone calls me Rav."

She watched him as they ate. "Rav. Are you nervous? About the wedding I mean."

He looked at her for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was gentle and calm, "I think I was until I saw you."

Her mouth twitched, and she looked back at her plate. He put his hand out on the table palm up. Nesiara studied his long fingers and the lines along his palm. His was a simple gesture, but the trust implicit in her acceptance would set the beginning of their relationship. It would mark their first touch. How she wished she had beautiful hands. His prominent wrist bone only further set off the masculine delicacy of his bones. They were the kind of beautiful hands artists were suppose to have. Hers were better suited to a weathered field hand or scarred blacksmith. She put her fork down looking at his hand before placing hers on top. 

He felt the calluses that marked her hand. Raviathan gave her hand a gentle squeeze as he turned in his seat to give her his full attention. "Nesiara, I will try to be a worthy husband for you."

"With such a promise, I think I am lucky to have you as my match." She looked up at him, smiling, a light blush adding color to her cheeks and the tips of her ears. Though fatigued by the journey and stress of the situation, Nesiara didn’t strike him as weak. Raviathan wasn’t sure, but he sensed loyalty and a hint of feistiness that intrigued him. He smiled, kissing her hand then releasing it so she could continue her meal. 

"It does seem awkward, doesn't it." He wanted to make a comment about the more intimate part of their marital arrangements, but he didn't think he could pull off a joke without sounding like a total ass. Thinking she was probably most nervous about that part, he decided to go for silly and disarming so they could get some common ground. "You're going about your life, and then one day, all of a sudden, there you are, getting married. I knew I was coming of age, but it was still a surprise. What about you?"

"My parents were open about it. They told me about all the potential matches they were seriously considering." 

"Oh," Raviathan said. Had his father been looking for more than one? His earlier feeling of having this marriage rushed returned. At least now he had an idea of who his father had chosen. 

Nesiara was watching him, a slight disappointment pulling her warmth away. She said quietly, "You didn't know much then I take it." 

"I only found out about our match this morning." It wasn't her fault, so Raviathan tried to keep his voice even. Whatever the circumstances, this was to be his wife. Trying to make the best of it, he forced a little levity into his voice. "I'm sorry I don't have anything prepared for you really. Now that I can see how beautiful you are, I'm going to be hard pressed to find an adequate gift." 

She smiled as she looked back down at her plate and took another bite. "You're right. This is awkward. If I had known you had eyes as exotic as that, I would have tried to match them with glass. Stone that color is too rare." 

"A gift?" Now he really felt like a heel. "I'm sorry. If I had known…" 

"It's alright." She smiled, revealing a genuineness that melted away his remaining resentment. "You have until the official wedding, and this way it isn't just a random gift because you're meeting a stranger. It'll mean more because it will be for me." 

Raviathan put down his fork, took her hand, and kissed it. "You make me feel very lucky." Rough and strong, her hands were shaped by years of discipline for her craft. Her hand was cold, so he held it in both of his to warm. "I'm sorry. I'm taking you from your meal. I want you to know Nesiara, I really do feel lucky." 

"Well," she said, her hand gripping his, "we will make an interesting pair. Dark and pale." 

"Pale," Raviathan said in mock affront. "Fair and flaxen."

"It's like we're pieces from a game of queens." Raviathan cocked his head, unfamiliar with the game. "You've never played?" 

"Never heard of it." He let go of her hand so she could continue eating. In between bites she explained about the thirty two pieces and the board. The details of the game sounded complicated, with six different types of piece, each with a different movement quality. "It seems like you like this game." 

"It's all about strategy," she said, her eyes narrowed as if imparting a great wisdom. "You have to defend the king, the most limited of all pieces, but still the most important. Take the king, and you win the game. But it's the queen who has all the power." 

Raviathan's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Is this some comment on our marriage?" 

"You still get to be the important one," she said. 

"Oh well then. Too bad I'm so limited. I'll never be able to outmaneuver my queen." 

She covered her mouth with her hand and tried to suppress her laughter until she swallowed. "I'll have to remember to write my sister about that." 

"You have a sister?" 

"An older one. She's married and lives in West Hills. I also have a much younger little brother. You?" 

"Just my father, two close cousins, and an aunt on my father's side. She works as a handmaiden for a noble woman, so we almost never see her. I have more distant relatives, lots of cousins from my father's side. About half of them with red hair." 

"Dark skin with red hair?" Nesiara squinted as she tried to picture it. "Odd combination." 

Raviathan grinned. "Only Alarith the shopkeep here looks like that. You'll find out quickly that I take after my mother. She was from Tevinter. Dark skin, black hair, and she had a story about how we got our eyes. If my queen can outmaneuver me, I'll tell it to you." 

"There's a challenge," she said smiling. "If you take after her, she must have been quite the beauty." 

"Oh," Raviathan started with a hand up, "you have no idea. Ask anyone in the alienage and they'll all admit she was extraordinary. I actually look more like her sister, but I have my mother's eyes. But you said there were many matches your parents were considering. It must have been hard to choose when you couldn't meet any of us." Raviathan wasn't sure, but Nesiara seemed uncomfortable with the subject. 

"Well, my parents still chose. And there weren't so awfully many." 

Had she wanted someone else then? Or maybe left someone back in Highever? Raviathan was surprised by how much that stung. It would have disgraced her parents to have their child force her own match. Worse if it was from their own alienage. Though rare, such couples either left to find employment with a lord who would house them or ran off to find the Dalish. The couple wouldn't be exiled, but after such a scandal, life in the alienage would be uncomfortable. 

Sensing that she had put him off, she took his hand. "Rav?" 

He turned back to her, wondering at her earnestness. Though he had expected an arranged marriage since he was able to understand what marriage was, and he had heard many other elves describe the experience, nothing matched the surrealness of meeting a person for the first time and understanding she was his wife. Would they live forty, fifty, sixty years together? The time seemed to draw out in front of him. Would she resent him, wishing she had another? Would she grow to care for him? Would resentment at the marriage cause a distance to grow until they were cold? "Ness. I want to be a good husband. If there's any reason you want to call this off…" 

"No," she said quickly, which only made Raviathan wonder more. 

There was more going on with her than just the long journey. Patience, his aunt had told him. Whatever was bothering her, she would not be able to hold it in for long. Now that he was looking, he could see it under the surface like a rushing river under a thin layer of ice. Either he or his father would learn soon enough. He smiled and squeezed her hand. "It's alright, Ness. I just didn't want you to feel stuck if this isn't what you wanted. As far as I can tell, I'm getting the better part of this match." 

"You're sweet," she said, relaxing. She tried for a flirtatious smile, "And you're even more handsome than I heard." 

Raviathan smiled back trying to keep the uncertainty from touching his expression. Why was she trying so hard? It had not occurred to him until then that her reputation might be tarnished and kept hidden from his father. If that was true, it did not matter to him. Maybe the problem was with her family. Be patient.

When they finished with the meal he cleaned the dishes, shooing her away when she tried to help. Instead, she sat by the window with her tea, the aloe plant creating long spikes of shade across her dress. He gave her a fresh glass of water and took the second chair. She smiled as the sun glinted through the window to make, her hair glow in the gloom. "I'm sure you are told this all the time, but you really are beautiful." He reached out to touch her soft hair. 

She almost giggled but was too tired to manage more than a shy laugh. "You think I'm beautiful?"

"Who wouldn't? You must have left many a broken heart in Highever."

She laughed. It wasn't some coy, fake thing, but real laughter that made him warm inside. Then she probably had not left some romance behind. "I'm sure to get some evil looks from the maidens here."

He smiled, taking her hands. He looked down at them. He liked the feel of their strength and calluses from work. He ran his thumb over the top. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable. If you need me to be patient, I will be."

She bit her lip. "Um. Yes. I appreciate that." She looked down. "But, I don't want you to be too patient."

"Then how about this. I set the pace for this," he squeezed her hand then massaged it between both of his, "but you tell me if you need me to slow down."

Her eyes gleamed in the light though she still looked tired. "Sounds fair."

He smiled and scooted his chair closer so he could hold her hands easily. "How was your journey here? I'm surprised you didn't have an escort."

"Yes. I made it all right," Nesiara said.

He could see she was trying to hide her embarrassment. What was the story there? He bit the inside of his lip and decided to ask something else that might not be so sensitive. "Um, that's good. Then tell me about Highever." Her already pale skin turned ashen. "What happened?" he asked. She squirmed in her chair. He said in a soft, low voice he used to calm children, "Please. Tell me what's wrong."

She continued to hold herself for a moment before blurting out, "The Teyrn family, the Couslands, were all slaughtered."

"What?" was all he could manage. 

Once she started, the story rushed out. "They were all killed in their beds by Arl Howe. He's taken over Highever. The Couslands were good rulers, and now everything is chaos. The local Banns loyal to the Couslands have been run off but some have tried to take the city back. There has been fighting in the streets, and guards everywhere, and talks of a purge. Howe has a reputation of being hard on elves. We've all been afraid. Another traveler told me the purge did happen just after my family left."

Raviathan put an arm around her shoulders. "I'm so sorry. Why doesn't your family come here? They'd be safe." 

"They went to West Hills where my sister lives. The dowry money is what's helped them leave. We had a shop in the alienage. They had to leave so much behind." She looked down as a tear escaped. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say anything just yet, not like this, but… it's been so hard. I've been so worried." 

Raviathan closed his eyes. She needed him to accept her so her family could keep the dowry money. His heart went out to the poor girl. Maker, that must have been painful in so many ways. No wonder she had been so willing to get along with him. He sat back, feeling like a cad. She looked up at him in alarm, which affirmed his worry. "Ness. I am terribly sorry for what's happened with your family." She tried to take his hand, but he held her wrists. "We'll work something out with them. I promise. We want everyone safe, alright? Maybe in time they could pay back part with another dowry from a better match. I'm sure my father would be reasonable about it. "

"Rav." He looked up to see tears, and he wanted to reach up and wipe them away. "The dowry has been paid. It's alright." 

He winced. "No. I can convince my father not to hold the dowry against you. You shouldn't be forced into a marriage like this." 

She sniffed. "It's okay." 

He looked at her, pained. "Ness. You're not a slave to be bought. If you want out of this, I won't be upset. It'll be okay. We'll work something out." 

She freed one hand to touch his face, but he caught her wrist again. "You'll stay here with us until your parents get settled. From there we'll figure out what to do." 

"You've been so kind to me. What makes you think I won't be happy here?" 

He sighed. "I know they panicked. You could get a better husband. I'm sure there would be lots of opportunity for you with someone else."

"Rav. I want this marriage."

He frowned at his feet as he thought. Her parents were no longer secure now that they were refugees in another alienage and had lost their shop. Her options were more limited now that her family could not argue for better. He held her wrists, his thumb lightly stroking over her fine, light skin. "Ness, I'm so sorry this happened to you. We can wait until your parents are better positioned to find you a good husband. We'll take care of you until then, alright? Don't worry. It'll be fine." 

"Please, Rav. This was almost finalized before the attack. It just made everything happen sooner."

Clear, concerned eyes met hers. "Are you sure?"

She freed her wrist to touch his face. When he moved to catch it again she surprised him by slapping his hand away. She said surely, "Yes. I feel honored to be your wife." 

He kissed her wrist and held her hands in his. "Ness. I think you can do better." 

She kissed him. It was small, just a peck, but it was their first kiss. He smiled sadly. "You don't have to. I'm sorry I pushed before. I didn't know."

"Rav," she huffed to his renewed surprise, "would you stop being stubborn. I want you to kiss me."

Looking into her resolute, deep blue eyes, he was certain he liked her now. Just as he thought—a little feistiness to add some spice. Sweet, but not weak. He gave her a saucy grin. "I don't know. Maybe I need a little proof." She grinned in return. She kissed him with more passion but kept it sweet. 

He smiled ruefully. "That's why you didn't have an escort."

She nodded. He cocked his head studying her sharply. There were still shadows in her eyes. "Did something happen on the way here?"

Nesiara took a long breath. "There were some highway men. My father told me to hide if I ever felt that there was danger." She closed her eyes and swallowed. "I was so scared." 

He scooted his chair forward so he could hold her. She leaned into his chest, grateful to be safe again. It had been such a relief to see Denerim. She began, "There were five of them on the Imperial Highway catching people who were leaving the unrest. I was behind a cart so they didn't see me. There was a man who couldn't pay so they threw him off the road. His wife was screaming, and one of them took her behind the barricade. I ran back as fast as I could and down the nearest slope. I hid in the forest and only moved at night. I didn't go back to the highway until I saw Denerim." 

"Oh, Ness." His voice was tight. "I'm so sorry. You must be exhausted after all that. I'm such an idiot. Do you want to lie down for a bit?" 

She continued to hold on to him, surprised by the hardness of his body. "Maybe later. Right now it feels really good to talk with someone." 

He rubbed her back. "Anything you want. Would you like more tea or something else?" 

She moved out of his arms with a sigh. "More tea?" 

He kissed the corner of her mouth. "Coming right up." He added some wood to the stove and herbs to her cup before hopping upstairs with surprising agility. He bounced down holding an ornate brush in his hand. He smiled as she looked at it. "It was my mother's. Have a seat here," he indicated one of the dining chairs. She moved over, frowning in puzzlement. He stepped behind her and undid the braid with nimble fingers.

It was odd having a man do this. Normally only the women in her family would play with her hair. The kettle whistled as the braid was undone and her cup was refreshed. He kissed the top of her head and started singing softly as he brushed her hair. Nesiara closed her eyes as she listened to his voice. It was wonderful, so rich and resonant, full of nuance. All the tension seemed to drain as his voice soothed her. He stopped only to say, "Drink your tea before it gets cold." 

"Please keep singing. Your voice is so beautiful." 

He leaned down to kiss her head, his fingers trailing through her hair. "My mother was trained as an entertainer. She taught me music. Singing and such. She had the most beautiful voice you could imagine." He returned to singing as he gently brushed her hair. The soft, rhythmic scrape of the brush brought memories of childhood when she was too young to fully appreciate the care her family gave her When her tea was finished he replaited her hair and led them back to the more comfortable chairs under the window. 

She smiled shyly. "I've never had a man do that before." 

He shrugged. "I did that all the time for my mother and aunt. It made me feel good that I could care for them a little." She leaned over and kissed him, feeling genuinely happy. His sweetness was completely unexpected after all the stories she had heard. One of the girls who had moved from Denerim had told her he was the easily the best looking man in the city, but that didn't prepare her for how exotic he was. He grinned, and she was struck by charming his smile was. "I just wanted to get to know you better. Maybe you should decide what to tell me next." He went back to holding her hands. 

"How about my family?" Nesiara offered. 

"Sounds good," said Raviathan as he kissed her hand. He watched her intently for a moment, looking like a cat getting ready to pounce. What she had planned to say was foremost in her mind, but that captured her complete attention. She watched him back, wondering what this boy was going to do. Though he moved quickly, there was great tenderness in the way he caressed her face and in the kiss he gave her. She wondered if she felt so warm because this was to be her husband, if it was because a near stranger was so intimate, that this intimacy need not be hidden but was expected, or if this was a promise of her future. 

Whatever the reason, her lips parted willingly. He deepened the kiss, soft lips feeling exquisite on hers. His hand was on her waist pulling her forward, and she was embarrassed by the tremble of warmth that travelled down the inside of her legs. She felt caught between what was expected from her as a wife and worry that he would not want someone who gave in so quickly. His lips left, but he remained close, just a breath apart. "Too fast?" 

"No," she answered honestly. 

"Good." He kissed her again, his hand travelling around her back. She knew then that if he wanted, she would be sharing a bed with him tonight. What would it be like to have him see her body? If he wanted to take her upstairs now, she would have made only the barest of protests. Again, she wondered at the hardness of his body, the easy strength in which he held her and pulled her close. When he ended the kiss, she had been transferred to his lap. There was a naturalness in the way her arms moved around his neck. He gently brushed her hair back, and to her astonishment, let his finger slowly caress down the long slope of her ear. The hair on her arms raised at the touch, and she knew she must be blushing by the sudden heat that flashed through her. 

Raviathan kissed one of her bare shoulders lightly. "Even your shoulders are red." 

"Ah," she started, wondering what to say. 

"I'm taking advantage of you, Ness," he said kissing her shoulder again. 

"You are?" 

"Oh yes," he said letting his lips brush across her shoulders and to the corner of her jaw. His voice was soft and dark as it caressed her earlobe. "You're tired, had a difficult journey, worried. I said I'd be a good husband, but I'm already breaking my promise." His lips caressed lightly up her ear, and she shivered. 

She expected him to start nibbling her ear, giving all the wonderful sensations that would cause, but instead he sat back in the chair with his arms loose around her waist. An odd thrill fluttered in her stomach when she realized she could feel his arousal pressing up against the bottom of her thigh. "Oh," she said not sure if she should be embarrassed or offended. "I… um. I can feel you." 

"I like you, Ness," Raviathan said calmly. She was startled by his confidence. He wasn't the least embarrassed by any of it. His fine boned fingers stroked her hair, and his gaze went dreamy as he watched his fingers run lightly through it. "If you want to be my wife, which so far you've said yes to, you're going to have to put up with some of my more particular requests." He smiled gently at her and slumped back against the side of the chair, his fingers still trailing through her hair. "But not to worry. We're both still fully dressed." 

There were no apologies for his response to her and no attempt to hide it. She found it strangely refreshing. "Raviathan Tabris. I think I'm going to be marring a scoundrel." 

He grinned at her, the smile filling his clear blue and emerald eyes. "Good thing you're a queen. You're going to need all that strategy." 

She kissed him back making sure to press against him and was delighted when he made an involuntary little moan. It was okay to like the feel of his desire. What will it be like to be with him? So far she hadn't been all that impressed by sex though her experience was limited to only one other elf. But Rav created more passion in a single kiss than Bennly ever had. She ended the kiss and sat back to watch him, rather enjoying his look of calm longing. What would it be like to be married to him?

There was a danger here, and she couldn't afford to forget that. The concerns about his reputation were real, but she needed this match to work. Her betrothed had been wonderfully kind about the dowry, had been nothing but sweet, but it was too important for her family to rely on those assurances. The hurt returned then, but she put it out of her mind as best she could. Concern entered his eyes at her brief change of expression, and she was again taken by how observant he was. Before he could ask, Nesiara started, "I have a sister in West Hills. She married a servant of Arl Wulff. When we were growing up, we fought like cats." 

Raviathan leaned back as he listened, a faint smile on his lips. She talked about her family and friends, moments from her past. Her tales included the time she made her family adopt an abandoned kitten, and when she saw King Maric in the square when he visited the Couslands. When she said something that was particularly cute, he raised her hand up to kiss the back of her fingers but otherwise held it to his chest. 

It wasn't until the sun set low enough to hit his eyes that he realized how the time had passed. He sat up, "Maker's blood! I'm sorry, Ness. I was suppose to check in with the shop keep." 

He helped her up then rose to leave, but she kept his hand. "Do you want to come with me? You can see more of the alienage." He moved back to stroke her cheek. "Or you can stay here since you're tired. I have some books. Maybe you'd like to rest?"

"I'd like to go with you." She rose up on her toes and kissed him. He smiled and held her tight taking full advantage of the invitation. His lips parted hers as the kiss grew more sensual. He stopped, reluctant to part, his gazed lingering on Nesiara’s shining eyes. Their blue depths caught the low light of the setting sun, bright in otherwise darkening room.

"Follow me." Before he opened the door he turned to give her another kiss. 

On the next landing one of his neighbors called out, "Hey, Rav." 

"Hey, Trean." They stopped when a stooped and elderly man hobbled to the open door. He had kindly wrinkles and light graying hair. A young boy, about three or so, was playing with a little rag doll and wooden horse on the floor behind them, but walked over to see Raviathan and the new elf. Raviathan wrapped an arm around Nesiara's waist so they stood hip to hip. He was practically glowing when he said, "This is Nesiara. My wife." 

Trean's bushy eyebrows rose up, and he smiled affectionately. "Wife, huh?" He reached out to take Nesiara's hand. "You're lucky, Rav. She is a pretty one." Raviathan squeezed her waist. The elder’s grip was surprisingly strong given his age. "I'm Trean. You'll find me about, looking after my grandson here. Let me know if you need anything." The boy had a hand clutched on Raviathan's pants. 

"Thank you, ser," she smiled when he squeezed her hand and let go. 

"Please excuse us," Raviathan said. "I need to check in with Alarith." 

"Oh, of course, of course," said Trean. "Come by for tea soon." 

"Tea soon," said the child. 

"We will," he replied. He looked down at the boy, his slender fingers playing with the child's fine hair. "You will join us of course." 

"Tea, tea, tea," the child said. Trean chuckled and extracted the boy's hand from Raviathan's pants. The boy started to cry a bit but was easily distracted by the wooden horse. 

As they left Raviathan whispered, "Now that he knows, the rest of the building will know by tonight." 

Nesiara laughed softly. "We had one like that back home. An old widow woman who always wore black though her husband had died twenty five years ago. Swear her to secrecy, and the whole alienage knew in an hour." Raviathan led the way through various halls and corridors then down two more flights of stairs, never releasing her hand. Nesiara shook her head. "I think I'm going to get lost." 

"Hmm," was his only reply as the descended another flight. He didn't release her hand as they made their way quickly to the shop.

Nesiara took in her new home as they jogged down the street. This alienage was a little bigger than the one she had lived in, but in Highever the streets had a cobblestone base under the accumulated dirt. The earthen roads made the Denerim alienage feel dirtier but also less claustrophobic as the barriers didn't press in over their heads. While the walls of the Denerim alienage were every bit as solid, there was something more permanent in the oppressive stone in Highever. The buildings here had more stories on average, but the disrepair was the same: dilapidated buildings that were sometimes just boards hastily nailed together, refuse in the alleys, mangy rats and dogs wandering about. Only the faces were different. 

"Hey, Alarith," Raviathan called. The alienage's general store was moderately busy, with wives picking over the remaining produce and two men talking in a corner.

"You're late," Alarith said, but was smiling when he saw the young elf holding hands with a new beauty.

"Sorry. This is Nesiara, my wife." Every head in the store turned at the declaration. Nesiara cast her eyes down as she was suddenly the object of scrutiny. She wondered again at the rumors, but whatever the truth, it did seem he was well known in the alienage. The looks were not hostile, but there was a definite interest in her. Raviathan continued on as if he did not notice, "This is Alarith." 

Alarith said, "Nice to meet you. Nesiara is it?"

Nesiara answered, "Yes. How do you do?"

"I do fine. I must say, Rav is lucky to get a wife as pretty as you."

She laughed. "He told me that already. I'm feeling pretty lucky too." 

"Nervous about the big day?" 

Nesiara squeezed Raviathan's hand. "More excited than nervous. Rav has been nothing but sweet." 

"Sweet, huh," Alarith eyed Raviathan skeptically. "Normally I wouldn't ask, but considering how pretty you are, has he been a gentleman?" 

Nesiara blushed, which made Alarith narrow his eyes at the two of them. Raviathan frowned and squared his shoulders, his arm wrapping around Nesiara. "She's my wife. Mind your own business." 

Alarith cracked a grin. "So she is. Glad you're finally growing up young man." 

"Do you have an errand for me to run or not?" Raviathan asked. 

Distracted annoyance replaced Alarith's good humor, and he beckoned them back around the counter where they could speak more privately. "I finally got word from the supplier. There won't be any eggs from him for a while. The armies have been called to the south, so food prices are going to soar."

Raviathan's shoulders slumped. As if winters weren't bad enough. "Seems an odd time for war." 

Alarith crossed his arms and his mouth quirked to the side as he thought. "It's going to be tough, alright. I've got a decent storage of dry goods to stretch things out, but that won't last more than a month or two tops. Here's hoping that the fish don't go to war." He shook his head. "I don't get it. Gravie told me south, but unless the King wants to go after some Chasind miscreants, what's the point?" 

"Chasind?" Nesiara asked. 

"They're the barbarian tribes far to the south," Alarith said. "It's been one of the mildest winters I've ever known. Don't know why they'd be making trouble or why the banns can't handle it." 

Raviathan shrugged, not really caring about the reason there would be shortages. Knowing why didn't change the fact that lean times were ahead. Nesiara said cautiously, "Not east then?" 

Alarith shrugged. "Could be he was wrong. I would have thought if anything it would be the Orlesians." 

"Howe sacked Highever," Nesiara said. 

Alarith straitened in surprise. "Howe? Did what?" 

"Is that important?" Raviathan asked. "Doesn't change that new suppliers are needed." 

"It changes a lot," Alarith said. "If the armies are going south, most of the Bannorn will be supplying them. I was hoping to find something north, but if Howe is rampaging around while the King is off chasing south tails, will get little help there." 

"What about imports," Raviathan asked. "I know they're more expensive, but if the armies are driving prices up…" 

"That's part of the problem," Alarith said. "Howe now controls two major ports for trade. That's a lot of power for one man to have." 

Aside from the issue, Raviathan was surprised that Alarith was confiding in him and that he had not gotten a lecture after all. He squeezed Nesiara's shoulder and held her close. Her skin was cool where it was bare, and he wanted to let his fingers roam over the fine texture. "Aside from selling fishing poles, all you can do is find other farmers willing to sell. I'll let Valendrian know we're in for a rough winter." 

"Fishing poles aren't a bad idea," Alarith said. "Anyway, I shouldn't worry you with this today." He leaned forward giving Nesiara a light kiss on the cheek. "Welcome to Denerim, Nesiara. Let me know if there's anything I can do for you." 

Nesiara smiled and nodded in thanks. Raviathan squeezed her hand. "If it's okay, I'm going to show Nesiara around."

"Be back tonight to clean up," said Alarith.

"Okay." They headed out under the open watch of the elves. There was an excited buzz of conversation as they left. Just who was this elf she was marrying? "This is the square and vhenadahl. That platform over there is where we hold all of our celebrations, including our wedding," he added, wrapping his arm around her waist. "Alarith has been really kind to me. I make a little money doing the books, running errands and cleaning, and he lets me read anything in the store, and we get a big discount on food." The square was still full of children and a few gossiping women milling about. Raviathan led her to the stage to sit on the edge and watch the square. "Our hahren is Valendrian. His house is just over there." 

Nesiara said with a coy smile, "So he'll be the one to do our handfasting?" 

He grinned, ducking his head. "I suppose. You're ready for that then?" 

Raviathan had been introducing her to everyone as his wife. To Nesiara, the day felt unreal. Looking around, Nesiara saw that this alienage was different than the alienage in Highever, yet very much the same. The streets were still littered with children and gossips. The muddy roads were still lined with the same patchwork of buildings. It was all familiar, only this place came with a different arrangement and different names. It must be strange indeed to learn that you were betrothed the day you met your spouse. Nesiara was grateful that she had known about her upcoming marriage for the last month as her parents decided over potential husbands. At least her parents had given her warning. She had heard Raviathan was handsome, but the stories didn't do him justice.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Raviathan waved to a red headed woman about his age. As she walked up with a wide grin, he said, "That's my cousin Shianni. She's been my best friend as far back as I can remember. Hey, Shianni. This is Nesiara." 

"Hey, cousin," the read head said, her smile filled with a bright interest. Nesiara liked her immediately. There was an openness about her that Nesiara found attractive. "So this is the little wife? How are you, Nesiara?" 

"Fine," she said. 

"Don't let the brave smile fool you," said Raviathan. "She's had an awful time of it." Raviathan recounted what happened at Highever and her journey to Denerim. 

Shianni's jaw dropped open as she heard. "By the Maker. I'm so sorry, Ness. And then on top of it you have to deal with this idiot." 

"Hey!" said Raviathan. 

Nesiara laughed. "He's been very sweet." 

"Has he now," said Shianni with a mischievous glint in her eyes. The two shared squished faces of playful annoyance. Shianni did notice how the two hadn't stopped holding hands yet. So quickly, she thought a little sadly. 

"Just wait until you get married, cousin," threatened Raviathan. "I'll have to make sure he's ready for that temper of yours." 

"I don't have a temper," Shianni retorted. 

Raviathan whispered in Nesiara's ear but loud enough for Shianni to hear, "Never trust a red headed woman." 

Nesiara laughed again when Shianni slapped Raviathan's knee. Nesiara said, "You two don't look at all alike." 

Raviathan said, "Her mother is my aunt, so we're first cousins. That's what I meant when I said I take after my mom. My other cousin Soris is also pale. We'll probably have a double wedding with him." 

"Oh?" asked Nesiara. 

"I met his wife," said Shianni brightly. "Her ears are huge and the type that folds back." 

"Huh," said Raviathan, wondering at his cousin's lack of tact. Normally that was the type of comment she would have scolded another elf for. Though trends came and went, that type of ear structure was considered unattractive by most. Of the three present, all of their ears were sky pointed, the more attractive of the two styles. Large ears, unless they were excessive, were mostly up to personal preference as with eye or hair color, but as long as they weren't too small, there wasn't much difference elves paid to them. Small eared elves might be picked on as self hating elves though they had no control over their biology. Some mothers who suspected their child's ears were not up to standards would pull them to keep up appearances. That irritated Raviathan to no end when he had to care for little cracks in the babies' sensitive ears. Bad enough shems pulled their ears in spite. Raviathan hated that elves would hurt their own babies for the most senseless reason. Raviathan's shapely ears were longer than usual and frequently poked out of his long hair. As far as he was concerned, Nesiara had the most alluring set of points. "Soris told me she had a high voice." 

"She does," agreed Shianni. "She's sort of quiet but really nice." Raviathan's lips quirked and he looked down. Shianni eyed him. "Out with it." 

"Um, it's kind of mean," he said trying not to smile. 

"What," Shianni demanded. 

"Um," Raviathan hedged a bit. "He's been calling her Mouse." 

The two women looked down with their own embarrassed smiles. "That is mean," agreed Nesiara. 

Shianni just shrugged, and again Raviathan wondered at her callousness. Deciding it would be best to talk to her in private and not in front of his wife, Raviathan changed the subject. "Do you know much about dancing, Ness?" 

She shook her head. "If your dancing is anything like your singing, I think I'm going to be hopelessly outclassed." 

Shianni's face fell a little at that statement though she tried to hide it, and Raviathan suddenly understood. He hopped down, grabbing his cousin by the waist, and hauled her up. She laughed, startled, but he was on the platform pulling her to her feet. "Come on, cousin. Let's show her one my mother taught us." 

The two of them stepped to the middle of the platform. They stood facing Nesiara with their hands clasped. Raviathan started with a thump thadda thump thump thump of boots hitting the platform hard. Shianni echoed the steps, then the two moved in simultaneous quick pace, their foot falls creating a beat that could be set to music. A few of the elves gathered around to watch, their claps keeping time. Nesiara clapped with them, delighted with the display. Shianni and Raviathan finished with a flourish to the applause of the small crowd, and Raviathan pivoted to spin Shianni around. She laughed and hugged him tight. "You always know just what to do, cousin," she whispered to him. 

He kissed her, his hand buried in her bright red hair. "Shianni, you know I'm always going to love you." 

"I know," she said a little sadly. "It's just… you and Soris in the same day. At least you're staying here," she said taking his hand and leading him back to Nesiara. 

Nesiara took Shianni's other hand and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "You dance beautifully." 

Shianni already had a faint flush from the fast paced dance, but her color deepened. "Rav's mother knew more dances than you could believe. She taught us, but I never had a head for music like my cousin." 

"So true," Raviathan said. "She sounds like a cat in heat." 

Shianni's mouth opened in shock then she punched him. Raviathan laughed at her, grabbing her wrists when she tried to do more. "You ass," she said trying to free her hands. 

Nesiara scooted back, laughing at the two. Shianni wrestled Raviathan on his back, putting her weight on top of him. Raviathan said, "I'll toss you off the stage." 

"No you won't," Shianni returned, struggling unsuccessfully in his grip. 

"Yes I will. You'll land in mud. Get your dress all messy." 

"Ha! You liar. There isn't any mud." 

"There's always mud," Raviathan said. He leveraged her off then rolled with her across the stage. In the confusion of her skirts, Shianni found he had an arm around her waist and was hauling her up and over his shoulder. "Off we go, sweet cousin." 

"No!" Shianni shrieked, her breath catching in laugher. "Ness, help!" She held out her hands, and Nesiara rose quickly to grab them. 

Raviathan pretended not to notice as he dragged the two struggling women across the stage to the stairs. "Cousin, have you gained weight?" he asked slapping her rump. "You're a lot heavier than I remember." 

"Let me go," Shianni gasped. "I give, I give." 

Raviathan put her down, and she promptly punched him in the shoulder. "See," he said to Nesiara. "Never trust a red headed woman."

She was about to renew the fight, but Raviathan hugged her tightly and kissed her, and everything was forgiven. "Ness, are you sure you want to marry him?" 

"Yes," Nesiara said happily. 

The smile Raviathan gave her made butterflies flutter in her chest. He took Shianni's hand and spun her away. The red head moved lightly, ending the move on one toe with one arm extended gracefully. "Here, Ness," Raviathan said. "Let me show you how to dance." 

"Oh no. I couldn't." 

"We'll start simply." Raviathan put an arm around her waist and clapped one hand in his. 

Shianni put her arms in a similar position as if she had an invisible partner and swirled around the stage making time by repeating, "One two three, one two three." 

"It's just like that," Raviathan said gently. "Just follow me." 

Though Nesiara was nervous, Raviathan moved his partner confidently around the stage, his eyes never leaving her. At the end of each series of steps that completed a long half circle, Raviathan led her to the next so she swirled around. "I'm going to get dizzy." 

"No you won't," Raviathan said. "Keep your eyes on me." They often came close to the edge of the stage, and Nesiara worried that they would fall off especially since Raviathan never seemed to look at anything except her, but they never did. The steps got easier as she became familiar with them, and she found herself relaxing. She stopped thinking about the stage or the steps. For the first time she wasn't embarrassed for staring at her betrothed. Even Shianni's voice melted into the background. The two of them spun about, and in the swirling background of brown and grey buildings, blue sky, and green leaves, her betrothed stayed constant. 

Laughter brought them to a halt. It was deep and carried through the square easily. "So I see you're celebrating early." 

Raviathan jumped down and hugged the old man. For all of Valendrian's years, he was still a powerful figure in the alienage. They kissed on the cheek as the two women made their way off the stage to gather under the vhenadahl. "I have a lot to celebrate," Raviathan said grinning widely. He took his bride's hand. "This is Nesiara of Highever. Ness, this is our hahren, Valendrian." 

"Indeed," Valendrian said warmly to the young woman, taking her free hand in both of his. "It is a pleasure to welcome you into our alienage." 

"Thank you, hahren," Nesiara said freeing her hand from Raviathan long enough to embrace the old elf, and he patted the young woman's back affectionately. "We don't have a vhenadahl in our alienage. It's so pretty." 

Raviathan and Shianni both looked scandalized. Shianni's voice was full of pity and astonishment, "You don't? How can you not have a vhenadahl? I wouldn't even feel elven without it." 

"Now, Shianni," Valendrian said, "don't make the girl self-conscious. You have better manners than that." 

"But, hahren," Shianni said. "I've never heard of such a thing." 

"Highever lost their tree many years ago," Valendrian said gravely. "It is a sorrow I do not think they recognize." 

"Hahren?" Raviathan asked as he looked at the elder in concern. 

"They have not sought to replace it, even after all these years." Troubled by his elder's uncharacteristically melancholy manner, Raviathan reached out to hold the elder elf's shoulder. "Oh, not to worry," Valendrian said. "I just hope it doesn't become a trend. Even when we have hard times, we cannot forget what little heritage is left to us." 

"Speaking of hard times," Raviathan said. "I have news." He and Nesiara explained about Highever, and Raviathan finished with Alarith's news and concerns for food prices and availability. 

Valendrian took in the news with grim resolve. "Thank you for alerting me. At least this way we can make preparations. I'll meet with Alarith soon, but…" he said, his eyes twinkled in the late sun, "we shouldn't forget our joys either. Are you ready for your handfasting then?" 

"Yes, hahren," Nesiara said reaching for Raviathan's hand. 

"We both are," he affirmed squeezing her hand back then took the formal hold for the ceremony that entwined their fingers, a symbol of their entwining lives. 

"And you will act as witness?" Valendrian asked Shianni. With a proud lift of her chin, Shianni agreed. Raviathan winked at his cousin, glad for her change of heart. Valendrian began the informal ceremony that would be the start of their marriage. He lowered his head, adopting a serious attitude, and the three younger elves did the same. "We have not always been a free people. Much of our heritage and language have been lost or taken from us. But we stay strong. We are elves, the first people, the decedents of immortals. Nothing can take that away. Now we rekindle that heritage as we witness the forging of a new generation. Our strength is in our ties, our bonds of marriage and family, for these are the bonds that set us free. They give us continuity from one generation to the next, and unite us as kin. For only when we stand together are we free." 

Valendrian placed his fingertips to the bowed foreheads of the bride and groom. "A pairing of our young is a sacred thing. It is in you that we place the faith of our future. From this day forth, it is your duty to honor and respect your fellow child of immortals. Hold your hands fast so that you may walk your path together and not be lost." At this he wove a red ribbon around their wrists. "Children of immortals, it is time for you to take your place, to take on the responsibility of families as others have before you, to add your voice and strength to your kin. Though the decedents of immortals, you are no longer children in the eyes of your fellows. As hahren of Denerim, I pronounce Raviathan and Nesiara husband and wife." 

The new couple kissed under the shifting shadows of the vhenadahl's leaves. A few elves who had stopped to watch applauded the couple. Shianni hugged them both wiping away a tear she knew her cousin would tease her later for, then Valendrian did the same. One of the elves called out, "She's a beauty, Rav. How'd you get so lucky?" 

Raviathan turned to see Taedor walking up. Raviathan gave him a one armed hug since his hand was still tied to Nesiara's. "Don't know. I guess the Maker was smiling on me. Have you heard from your brothers?" 

"Not yet," Taedor said, his brow furrowing in worry. At Nesiara's curious look, Taedor said, "My brothers, Pol and Jerik, ran off to find the Dalish a few weeks ago. They woke up early, took some food, and left a note." 

"May the Maker light their way," Nesiara said. Some elves were fascinated by the Dalish, but the stories just scared her. The danger of life outside the alienage had only become more firmly fixed in her mind after her journey to Denerim. 

Raviathan made the introductions as more elves came around to meet their newest member. Nesiara met scores of elves and struggled to remember all the new names and faces. Raviathan escorted her around the alienage, the main street and all the winding paths and alleys. Though Nesiara wasn't sure, it seemed she was getting more interest than the other brides and grooms who had moved to Highever. Was it because she was Raviathan's wife or were the Denerim elves more curious? 

When dusk fell they returned to the shop. Raviathan unwove the red ribbon from around their wrists, kiss her wrist, and rewove it into a bracelet for her to wear. They talked about the alienage and his friends as he swept and mopped the floor, then they both picked out food for the evening dinner which he noted in the ledger. He locked up the store, and they returned to the apartment building. 

"Here," he whispered in her ear. He pulled out a piece of white chalk he got from Alarith's store. As they went up stairs and through the various halls, he made small marks, triangles and stylized arrows, either at the base or top of halls and entryways. They were small marks and placed where no one would notice unless they were looking for them. "These marks will lead you home."


	4. Married Life –  Wedding Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: revised 5/7/14

The newlyweds fell into an easy companionship as they cooked together, stealing little touches and glances. Raviathan felt a thrill every time she bumped against him. So strange, he thought. His wife. The whole direction of his life could change in hours. He kissed the pale skin her bare shoulder and saw the delicate pink that colored her cheeks in response. My wife.

Raviathan pulled back her hair intending to kiss the nape of her neck when the door opened. His father arrived just before the gates closed for the evening. Raviathan wiped his hands on a dishtowel, taking Nesiara's hand. "This is my father, Cyrion. Father, Nesiara came this morning. Valendrian handfasted us this afternoon."

Cyrion's eyes crinkled in a smile, and he and Nesiara embraced. "Glad to meet you, daughter. I only wish I could have been there for your handfasting."

Nesiara gave a shy smile in return. "Thank you. Raviathan has made me feel so welcome. If you'll give me a moment." She went upstairs, her footfalls soft thumps on the floor above.

Raviathan went to his father and kissed him on the cheek. "I feel blessed, father. Thank you."

Cyrion patted his son's back and took a seat. He sighed, glad to be off his feet at last. Raviathan hugged him again then went back to cooking.

Nesiara came down with two small packages. "Father, this is for you. Your shaddain said you liked to smoke on occasion."

Cyrion opened the package she handed him to find an ornately carved pipe of gleaming redwood. There was a small bag of Nevarran tobacco to go with it. Cyrion turned the pipe over examining it. "This is beautiful," he said quietly. He half rose so he could kiss her cheek. "Thank you, daughter."

She smiled and went to Raviathan, her hand finding the small of his back. "And for you."

Raviathan flicked his wrist to toss the food in the pan. "Open it for me," he asked her. Nesiara pulled out an ornament that had a dozen blue, pink, and lavender crystals hanging from a silver filigree. The crystals caught the light and refracted it in dozens of tiny rainbows. Raviathan lips parted, his cooking forgotten, as he stared in fascination. "What is it?"

"It's an ornament to hang in the window. For the solstice and First Day Annum."

"It's sooo pretty," he said hypnotized.

Nesiara giggled moving the ornament back and forth, pleased by the way his eyes followed it. "You're going to burn dinner."

"Huh? Oh!" Raviathan lifted a pan up in time to save the cod he was frying. "Ness, you're going to have to hang that in the upstairs window; otherwise, I'm not going to be able to get anything done."

She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "I'm glad you like it."

Cyrion smiled as he watched the two flirt. "Son, I haven't seen you cook like this in ages."

Understanding his father's years unspoken worry, Rav offered an apologetic smile. "I guess I'm feeling creative." Nesiara thought about the look and comment and stored it away for later. She rewrapped the crystal ornament and put it on the cabinet then took out dishes to prepare the table.

As they sat down to the meal, Raviathan broke the news about Highever. The creases of Cyrion's lined brow deepened. "That is troubling. I wonder just how many refugees were able to get out."

Nesiara finished chewing the salad of roasted fall vegetables, marveling at the flavors Raviathan could bring out. "I heard from another elf headed to Dragon's Peak that the purge did happen."

Cyrion rubbed his face with his hands. "Worse things yet to come. I'll let Valendrian know tomorrow. Our alienage will certainly need to accommodate those fleeing Highever."

"I told him earlier. How bad do you think it'll get?" Raviathan asked.

The aged elf sighed. "Only those who can afford it leave, so they might have enough to start over somewhere else. It's the ones who stay who bear the worst of it. Howe is a powerful man, but I'm surprised he thought he could get away with that. King Cailan will surely see him come to justice."

"Shems playing war games," Raviathan said bitterly. "What else is new? We have nothing to do with this but still we pay the price."

"Now son, this is one of the reasons I want you to understand politics. It has an impact on our lives."

Raviathan kept his voice respectful but news of this sort rankled him. "Why? There's nothing we can do about it. It doesn't matter how well I know Howe or the Couslands. I would have been able to change nothing."

"But you see, Nesiara's parents did know about Howe. They were able to escape in time to keep their family safe from the purge. We can't change what they do, but it does give us the ability to act before harm befalls us."

Considering the point, Raviathan acknowledged, "I suppose you're right, father."

Cyrion turned to Nesiara, fixing her with a serious gaze. "Nesiara, if you have any doubts, we will not hold the dowry against your family."

She smiled broadly as she squeezed Raviathan's hand under the table. "That's what Rav said." He shot her a shy smile squeezing her hand back.

Cyrion nodded his approval. "That's my boy."

"I am well pleased with the match," Nesiara declared.

Having watched the two flirt and send secretive little smiles and touches, Cyrion wasn't surprised his son's bride would stay. The change in his son had been immediate, and as glad as he was that his family was growing, anything to make his boy smile again was worth gold. The last two years had been the most joyless of Cyrion's life. Conversation was returning, maybe even his son's music, and Cyrion would be endlessly grateful for that. Hope blossomed in his chest. Perhaps grandchildren wouldn't be far away. Cyrion always regretted he and Adaia had not been able to have more children. When they realized Adaia's line was too strong, Solyn's warning prevented more. But that was in the past now. The danger was over. Perhaps this time they would be safe to have as many children as they wanted. He smiled warmly as he patted her knee. "I'm glad to welcome you as one of the family."

"Father, there's more," said Raviathan. "Bandits were on the road. Ness just barely escaped them."

"Were you hurt?" Cyrion asked and squeezed Nesiara's hand.

"No. I got away before they saw me. It was bad though."

Cyrion frowned. "You poor girl. Your parents must have been very worried."

"I feel bad knowing they're struggling while I am so welcomed to a new family. It seems like a wedding celebration is wrong."

Cyrion rolled his mug of wine between his care worn hands as he considered. "I understand how you feel, Ness. We will send word that you are content with your match, but there is little else we can do. At least they have the money they needed and peace of mind that you are safe. I have learned too well that there are always troubles in life. Mourn for what is lost, then move on. Without some levity we will become too grey to carry on."

She paused, considering. "You're right. I would like to send a letter though."

"Of course," Cyrion nodded. "It may take some time to get there given all the trouble in the area. In any case, the banditry is for the banns to take care of. Perhaps the refugees will be in a worse position after all."

They went back to eating. Raviathan felt Nesiara's foot brush his. He smiled but didn't look up as he rubbed his foot against hers. They played like naughty children, which raise a question for Raviathan. He hesitated to ask such a direct question in front of his new wife but was curious. "Father, what are we to do about the sleeping arrangements?"

Cyrion finished chewing then spoke. "Nesiara, you will take my bed. I will use the bunk from now on. Rav will stay in the top bunk until you both feel right about changing things."

Nesiara nodded. "Thank you, father. That is generous of you."

Cyrion's smile warmed his eyes. "It's good to see my family growing." The two young elves exchanged pleased looks as their fingers played under the table. Cyrion said, "I know your parents had a shop. We can't match that I'm afraid."

"I'm not worried," Nesiara said, her chin lifting. "There was a market woman who started selling my vases to humans. Before I left she had me fill an order for one of the banns."

They both looked impressed. Raviathan said, "That's amazing."

"Not just that," she continued. "I was also getting orders for jewelry. Nothing really fancy, there was only so much we could afford, but the earrings I made sold well to the humans."

Raviathan squeezed his bride's hand. "Ness, you're so talented."

Cyrion added, "That is quite an achievement for one so young. You should talk to Alarith about setting up a display in his store. He might be able to get you some contacts in the Market."

"I met him today. Just briefly. I made the pipe and ornament as your gifts."

In perfect synchronicity, Raviathan and Cyrion both dropped their hands to the table, forks chinking on the plates. Nesiara tried to hide her laughter. Raviathan took her hand, turned it over, and kissed the palm. "You're an artist."

Conversation carried on well past dinner as they talked about the alienage. Raviathan and Nesiara washed the plates and cleaned the kitchen together. Raviathan enjoyed the work when he had someone to help him. Nesiara's company made the work less of a chore. Cyrion sat by the window and started to light his pipe as he watched them. When they finished he said, "You two go on ahead. I think I'll stay up and read for a while."

Raviathan understood the hint. They would have some privacy during the next few nights as they became accustomed to one another. With his ornament in his hand, he led the way up the ladder feeling suddenly awkward. Though he wasn't sure, in all likelihood Nesiara felt the same. The weight of expectation was on him, on them both in fact. He was to be a husband, this his wife.

In an attempt to distance himself from his new awkwardness, Raviathan hung the ornament in front of the window that caught the most light. Using a thin remnant he tore from one of the threadbare curtains that separated the room, he stood on his father's bed to tack it up. It wasn't until he turned and saw Nesiara quietly watching him from the center of the room that he realized what this looked like. This was her bed now. He should have waited for her invitation.

"Um," he started as he grabbed her pack and moved it over to the other bed. "Let me know if you need anything." He felt awkward and out of sorts again just as he had when they'd first met by the gates. He put the candle on the chest that would soon be hers. She looked at him uncertainly as they stood together in the room. Had he been staring? He must have been staring. "Oh, uh, let me get the curtains."

Heat from the stove kept the floor warm, enough that bare feet wouldn't freeze, but the room was otherwise chilly in the winter evening. He pulled the main curtain across the room to give her some privacy then started changing into his sleeping wear, a pair of old and patched undyed linen shorts that tied at the waist. The little candle showed her elongated shadow against the thin curtain, her curves light and dark as she changed to a long sleeping shirt. Raviathan felt as hypnotized by that as by her ornament. His wife.

Annoyed, Raviathan pushed away the nervous feeling that had invaded him. Nervousness wasn't going to make him a good husband. Nesiara was looking for him to lead, and he wasn't going to let her down.

~o~O~o~

Once the curtain was in place, Ness changed into a long sleeping shirt. She could see Raviathan's vague outline as he moved about on the other side of the curtain. He was so different than she had expected. One of the elves who moved from Denerim had told their family Raviathan was a trouble maker and violent. It had worried her parents, but the shaddain who had been caring the dowry negotiations had said that the stories had been inflated by jealous families. His mother had been killed trying to protect the alienage, and the child had been angry but grew out of it.

Nesiara had heard a few other rumors from elves that moved from Denerim, but they were not close friends with her family and so her parents remained unaware. Her betrothed was supposed to be wild, or at least associated with violence and trouble, and some said that he had been cruel to the girls in the alienage. The stories said he was very good looking, but his reputation was awful.

Worried, Nesiara discussed the rumors with her best friend. They concluded that maybe if he was as handsome as the new elves said, his looks might have made him arrogant. One woman, who had recently moved to Highever for a marriage, told Nesiara that most of the time the girls in Denerim had been chasing him. Though her new neighbor had tried to hide her longing, Nesiara had caught the forbidden emotion when the newly married woman gossiped about Raviathan.

Her parents had been leaning towards a match from Dragon's Peak, but Cyrion had offered a large dowry when her family needed money badly. She had been so terrified on the trip to Denerim. Her family was fleeing, and her match had been hastily arranged. She'd broken down crying one night during her journey, knowing there was no way to return the dowry. She had been sold for her family's safety. She would have done anything to keep her family safe, but it hurt to know they were willing to tolerate putting her in a bad marriage in exchange for their safety.

She had hoped for a match like her sister Anesa. Shaun was plain and a bit boring, but he was learned and had good prospects as the servant of a bann. Her sister was happy, and, as if in testament to that, their son had been conceived within months. Raviathan was nothing like Shaun though.

When finished changing she called, "Rav?"

"Yes?"

"I'd like to ask you something."

"Okay. Should I… um, are you dressed?"

Nesiara laughed at the bashfulness of his question. "Yes, I'd like to see you."

The rumors of Raviathan's looks had not done him justice. He was more than handsome. Clean bronze skin covered a sculpted, angular face, but those soft, full lips indicated a sensuous nature. His eyes had make her breath catch as she stood tired and afraid near the alienage's gates. Those large eyes were startlingly clear and calm. At that moment, afraid as she had been by the journey and this match, she had felt relieved that this man was the person who would take care of her. He had taken care of her and done so gladly. When she spoke she had his full attention, which made her surprisingly shy. Moreover, his gentleness had been unexpected. Soft spoken and a little bashful, he obviously desired her, but he was so compassionate. There were many wonderful qualities that she had not expected. He even had a job to help support his family though it was unusual for a child. Not that he would be considered a child any longer. Her father would say he was a good man. She felt brazen for inviting him over, but he was her husband. With a stab of resentment, she reminded herself that she needed the match to work.

He pushed aside the curtain. His light linen pants stopped halfway down his calf, slung low around his hips. His chest was bare. She had seen her brother and his friends from the waist up, especially during the hot summers, but they looked nothing like this. They were thin, more on the skinny side. Though he had the slender frame of elves, Raviathan had the well developed muscles she had only seen in knights. How had his clothes covered up that physique? His shoulders were broad and sharp, his waist narrow, long muscles in his arms, and a stomach sculpted in powerful ridges. She had never seen a man up close who looked like that.

He was watching her steadily. Maker he had beautiful eyes. With long black lashes. "Do you want me to put on a shirt?"

Had she been staring? She must have been staring. She looked down at his bare feet. It wasn't fair. Even his feet were beautiful. "No. It's fine." Her voice sounded wrong, too high. "I was just…uh."

Losing his shyness, Raviathan padded silently to stand in front of her. He kissed the corner of her mouth, a surprisingly chaste gesture, then took her hand and led her over to the bed. He was so calm, and she was shaking. What did she know about him? This stranger, and she was married to him. He held her, his skin cold in the exposed air.

His voice was low and soft next to her ear. "Ness. It won't be good for you if you're nervous. I know that." As cool as his skin was, he warmed her. His voice was so gentle. "I would like to stay here tonight. We could talk more. Get used to each other. Ness, I'm not going to push for anything you're not ready to give. I don't want you to be angry tomorrow or resent me." He leaned far enough back to look her in the eyes, his thumb stroking her cheek. "We'll wait as long as you want. Okay?"

A panicked smile pulled at her mouth. "You'll wait until our official ceremony?"

At his sudden stillness, she almost laughed.

"I hope it doesn't come to that." His fingers entwined with hers, his smile full of warmth. "Ness, you're worth waiting for. I may not like the wait, but you're worth it."

She took in a long breath, nerves still making her jumpy. "No pressure? I can say no or ask you to leave? And if we do… something, but I'm not ready to sleep with you?"

"Absolutely."

Her breath came out in a slow exhalation, then she nodded.

"Good. I'm freezing." He was shivering as he pulled back the layers of blankets and heavy quilt before letting her in then settling beside her. His hands found hers under the blankets, the only parts of their bodies that touched. "Thank you, Ness."

"I know we keep saying this, but it's so strange. I thought about this for years, but it's nothing to actually meeting my husband. I imagined this so many times, all different scenarios or mates."

"Tell me what you imagined."

"Not you. Well, there were rumors."

The warmth left his face to be replaced by the expression of a much older man. "I'm sure some of what you heard is true, and some exaggeration. I can't change that, Ness. Not what's happened or what I've done. The rumors though, it hasn't been like that for a long time. Years. I've been trying to be a better person, and I want to be a good husband for you. Sweetheart, I'm happy with you. I couldn't ask for a better match, but if you don't feel the same, we'll help you."

"I didn't mean that." Nesiara reached to touch his cheek, her thumb following the contour of his bones. "When I heard the rumors, I didn't expect you would be so sweet. Seeing you today, I think that's what counts most." She shifted closer, leaving the heat her body had created in the bed to the cold in the space between them.

"Thank you, Ness." His voice was hoarse, and she wondered at the emotion behind it. What pressure must he have been going through? Did her opinion weigh that much on him?

"I didn't expect you to be so handsome."

He kissed her fingers, his smile back in place.

"You don't look like any elf I've ever seen. Your muscles."

As if taking that as a sign, he placed one of her hands against his chest. Startled, she almost retracted her hand, but curiosity won over impulse. "How?"

"My mother was something of an acrobat among other things. She taught me."

"You take a lot after your mother then. Your looks, your physique, your music."

He didn't say anything, only gently stroked her hand with his thumb. After holding her hand up to kiss her fingers, he settled it back lower so she could feel the ripples of his abdominal muscles. At first, when he lowered her hand down his body, she thought he was going to make her touch him, but this was still respectful. His fingertips traced light as a feather up and down her arm. There was no pressure. He was giving her an open invitation to know him.

So strange. She felt giddy and terrified. All the rules and admonishments were gone. After years of being watched, of not being allowed to flirt or be too friendly with boys outside her family, here she was with all new expectations. She could touch him. Would he want more if she did? Would he get impatient despite his words? Was she ready for that?

Her breath caught. A full day hadn't gone by, and here she was in a strange bed with a strange man. She knew he wanted to have sex. That much was obvious in the way he looked at her. Should she? She would have to eventually. "Can I see you?"

His head cocked at her request. "Whatever you want, but I have to warn you. You're very beautiful, Ness, and your hand feels good on me." He leaned close for a chaste kiss. It surprised her considering they had shared much deeper kisses earlier. The covers shifted as he slipped off his sleeping breeches, but his gaze didn't waver from hers. He was on his back, watching her, but made no move towards her. His small shrug indicated that it was her move.

With a moment's hesitation, she scooted closer and rested her hand on his chest. She had asked him to do this, so why stop now? She barely knew him, that's why, but then she did ask. Maker help me.

My husband. I will have his children. I will live with this man for the rest of my life. She felt his lips brush over her hair, and a soft kiss, but he made no other move. My husband.

Steeling herself, she raised the covers enough to let in the candlelight. Dusky skin melded with shadows further confused by his musculature. Frustrated by the lack of light, and not wanting him to freeze, Nesiara braced one arm on Raviathan's chest to hold up the blankets. He wasn't pushing, had invited her to explore, so maybe it would be alright. She could see his breathing speed up as she put her hand on his chest and slowly reached down. She wanted to understand everything, how his muscles felt, the smoothness of his skin, all the things that made him different. This was her husband. She would know this man, be with him intimately for the rest of her life.

Taking her time, she trailed her hand down to feel each hardened ridge formed by years of physical study. Her touch made clear what shadows hid. He was stronger than any elf she had ever seen. She felt him nuzzle her hair, encouraging, but he stayed still otherwise. Her fingers traced the valleys of his abominable muscles as she thought about him. What had his life been like?

If she compared him to Bennly, they couldn't be more different. Bennly was all fumbling hands and impatience. He hadn't given her time to explore or touch him in return for his hands on her body. She hadn't felt much of anything when he was inside her. Mostly, she just wanted it to be over. After they had finished, she was left crushed. Was that it? Was that what everyone was afraid of or obsessed with? She had risked her reputation and for what? The whole business was overrated.

Bennly always had the slightly starved look common to elves. Rib bones had guided her fingers then as muscles did now. She had felt sorry for Bennly whose insights always impressed her but his vulnerability made him a target for any disaster that hit the alienage, especially food shortages.

Next to Raviathan, Bennly seemed more like a child in her mind, someone who needed looking after. She rested her head on Raviathan's chest and let him hold her. Beyond the soft kisses he planted on her hair, he made no demands. She could touch as long as she wanted

"Ness, this feels so good."

She looked up at him, her chin resting on his chest. His eyes gleamed in the darkness, two bright coins of aquamarine. The hue of his skin took on a richer quality in the candlelight, like the glow wood could take on after polished by years of care. He stretched, his free arm going back to prop up his head while his other hand lightly caressed her arm. "It's like I always wanted this, like I was starving for it but didn't know I was hungry until now."

"For what?" He wasn't pushing for sex like she thought he would, so what did he want?

"Just this. Being with you right now. There's no guilt, no pressure. We don't have to rush or hide. We can take our time, Ness. We can share ourselves. I guess…" he trailed off, a slight frown between his brows, his eyes taking a far off look. "I guess I've felt very lonely until now."

"Lonely? You have so many friends here."

Focusing back to her, he nodded, a little sad. "You're different, Ness. Every day I wake up, it's going to be to your face." He smiled, stroking her cheek. "I can't imagine a better fate."

No longer embarrassed that she was lying half on him, she propped her chin on her hand, her eyes narrowed as she looked down on him. "This is really enough for you?"

"It is for now." He grinned then gave her sleeve a small tug. "My wife is so protective of her virtue." Catching her expression, his face fell. "It's just a joke, Ness. I didn't mean to pressure you."

"No. It's not that." She couldn't look him in the eyes anymore. Pursing her lips, she remembered overhearing her neighbors fight and the husband accused his wife of being a whore. At the time she was too young to know what that was, but the term stuck with her. The couple fought every day, and he started beating her. Nesiara's mother said it was probably a blessing the woman couldn't keep a child to term. Thinking back on the couple, Nesiara didn't want something to go wrong in the future and have her experience thrown at her. Not that she thought Raviathan would, but if anything was to come between them, it was still early enough to back out. There was a brief moment of panic at the idea that surprised her.

"Would it bother you if I'm not a virgin?"

The silence that followed made her chest tighten. Maker breath, it had been a mistake to tell him! All the fears she had since she had first given herself to Bennly flared sudden and strong. For a year she had worried someone would find out or that her husband to be would be disgusted. Fires burn her, she had just ruined her chance at a good match, and would Cyrion help her now if he knew this? Highever sacked, her family losing their shop and running for safety, her own long travel to Denerim hiding from thieves and scared every night of wolves or highwaymen, and for what?

Raviathan's arm was still around her shoulder, but he didn't move. When she finally dragged her eyes to meet his, all she saw was concern. Gently, he wiped away her tear. "You loved him?"

"No."

Confusion crossed his face. "Then why the tears?"

"Do you still want me?" How small and weak she sounded, like a beggar child.

He blinked a few times, then his body went limp under her, his head falling back on the pillow. "Oh, Maker." He started to laugh. "Is that what's wrong?" The deepness of his laugh filled the room the way far off thunder seemed to vibrate from all directions. "Maker damn me thrice as a hypocrite if I turned you away for that."

She wasn't sure how she felt about that statement. Apparently that part of his reputation was deserved. He moved suddenly, gathering her up in his arms as he rolled her on her back and kissed her deeply. "Is that the worst secret you've got?"

"I think so."

That damn smile of his was so charming. He settled next to her, his grin infectious, as he stroked her hair. "Sweetheart, I just asked you to look past my reputation and not hold me responsible for a past I can't change. What in the Maker's name makes you think you deserve less?"

"I've been worried for a year."

He held her close, his eyes closing as he simply felt her presence. "Whatever your past is, Ness, you're my wife now. I will thank the Maker everyday for this gift."

With a light kiss on her forehead, he leaned back to look at her. He was so happy, so easy to be with. How had she gotten so lucky?

"What did you think of it?"

"You really want to know this?"

"Not all the details. But I want to know what it was like for you."

Nesiara shrugged. "It was, well, kind of boring."

"Boring?" His eyebrows disappeared under his bangs. "Ness, one thing I promise you, I'm not boring."

"Oh? You're sure of this?"

He grinned at her tease. "Yes." His gaze softened as he looked at her, and she realized she could see him falling in love with her. She could see it in how protective he was of her feelings, how unguarded he was with his own in her company. The realization stunned her, and she felt her brain memorizing this moment. This is what my husband looked like when he was falling in love with me. "I told you, you can say no anytime. That's still true, but I want to make love to you. I want you to know how good it can feel."

"I still feel shy."

"Give me a chance. I want to give you pleasure."

With anyone else, she would have said they were after their own pleasure. Not him. She felt cherished, and she knew it was only her own inhibitions that were keeping her from what he offered. "I know you're not taking advantage, but I'm not sure of this yet."

He cupped her breast through her night shift, his thumb rubbing slowly over her nipple. Nesiara felt her nipple harden and become more sensitive under his touch, and more surprising was the mild ache that began in her groin. His smile said he knew the exact effect he was having on her. His eyes locked on hers, he lowered until his mouth took the place of his thumb. His tongue wet the fabric over her nipple making it cling and cool her skin. Throughout all the little nibbles and tongue flicks, his eyes remained on hers.

"Okay." Her voice quavered. "We can try more."

He laughed as he pulled up her nightclothes, and to her relief, he didn't stare at her naked body. Instead of going after her again, he lay next to her and caressed her back. "I had no idea how good this would feel, to be next to you."

"Rav? You've been with many women?"

"Does that bother you?"

"Just… I don't know what I'm doing. What if I'm the one who's boring?"

"Shhh." He rolled her on her back, his lips next to her ear, low and soft. "Stop thinking that right now. You are my wife. We've got years together. Our lives. I'm going to learn all your spots, all the ways to make you moan. And you're going to learn all about me. Never fear. Right now though? You're everything I could hope for. You're beautiful and sweet. You bring me pleasure just by being who you are."

Pretty words, but could he really mean them? His lips grazed over her neck, soft lips feeling her until her hair stood on end from the intimate caress. He nuzzled her, coaxing her head to the side, then started to nibble her earlobe. The tightness in her groin grew at the feel of his teeth. He nipped up the shell of her ear, slow, careful. All she could think about was the feel of his mouth on her. She closed her eyes to drink in the feeling of her skin.

Once he reached the tip, he drew down, sucking her ear into his mouth. A choked groan escaped before she realized she was making the noise. She had touched her ears before, as many young ones did until they were told to stop or learned to do that only in private. At night when she was alone in her bed, she had run her finger up and down the outer ridge, enjoying the delicate sensations that created. She couldn't even say why she liked it, but the softness of her own skin had entranced her.

Now, with his mouth, hot and wet, suckling at her, all those fine nerves seemed to come alive for the first time.

"Rav." His name came out of her filled with longing.

She could feel his smile as he nipped the tender skin behind her ear. "Still worried?"

What had he done? Touched her breast. Suckled her ear. Bennly had grabbed her breasts with rough hands, but that was nothing. He could have grabbed her elbow for all the effect it had. How had this man, this stranger she knew for less than a day, have this effect? Her body had changed with those few touches. It's like he pulled a lever inside her, opened something she didn't know existed. "You. You're not boring."

"Neither are you, sweetheart."

"I'm… I'm not doing anything."

At the light scratching of his fingernail on her nipple, she squirmed. His touch was a delicious agony that almost hurt even as she wanted more. He stopped just before her over sensitized flesh made the sensation painful. "Look at you, Ness. Do you know how good it feels to see you respond like this? That I can do this for you?" His hand stroked from her flank up over her breast, his palm brushing over her nipple to make her writhe for more. "Maker, you are a vision. I want to drink you in."

His kisses started on the underside of one breast, a nip, just a graze of teeth, to show his desire. Kisses and nibbles traced down towards her stomach. When he reached just above her bellybutton, she started to panic. "Wait." She put a hand on his shoulder. "Stop."

He looked up at her, questioning.

"I'm not ready for that. Um, kissing further down."

With the same self possession he had shown all night, he rose up to kiss her, pulling the blankets back up with him to cover them both. "Do you want to stop for the night?"

Startled, she realized what was pressing against her hip. Long ingrained instinct told her to pull away, but that voice had been diminished enough that she ignored it. Instead, she wanted to take his offer from earlier to see him. "Not stop. Just not that."

"Do you still want to make love?"

"Yes, I think so."

The moment of panic had cooled her passion, and when he moved, using his thighs to open and slide between her legs, she tensed.

"We can stop. It's okay."

Maker, he was being so careful with her, watching for every reaction. It bothered her that she was so easy to read. Was she that obvious? "Um, maybe you can do that thing to my ear again?"

His eyes gleamed with mischief. "Dearest wife, did you enjoy that?"

"Oh, don't tease me," but she knew he would know that statement for the lie it was.

"Hmmm." He murmured low as his mouth neared her unmolested ear. "Such a lovely ear. No one has ever touched your ears like I have." He nibbled her earlobe as one hand found her breast. "Did it make you feel needy?" His nose caressed up and down the shell of her ear as his fingers tweaked and primed her nipple. Her legs relaxed open as his voice took over her thoughts. "Did it feel good to have my mouth on you? Tasting you?" He scratched her nipple again, just short of agony. "Do you want me to taste you again?"

"Yeesssss."

That glorious heat flowed into her as she felt the heat of his mouth on tender skin. Gentle teeth and soft lips. Maker help me, this is what ears were made for. Her skin pricked again, the hair standing on end. In a way, it felt as if he had taken off a heavy cloak that she hadn't realized she was wearing. The heat of his skin, the cool of the night air, everything felt more as new skin experienced the world.

He reached down, and though she couldn't see what he was doing, she felt as he took his sex in hand. She felt him then. The blunt head of his sex pressed between her lips but did not penetrate her. He moved, stroking up and down just inside her tender flesh. His eyes became heavy lidded in ecstasy as he caressed her sex. The tightened need started to throb in her. In response, she rocked her hips in invitation, her thighs resting on his hips.

"You want this, Ness?" Raviathan was panting, his eyes closed as he kept stroking her. "Say no while I can still stop."

She pulled him down for a kiss. This is my husband. He is my now and my future. She pushed his arm down so that he was lined up, then pressed him in using her legs. When he was insider her, she fell back with a groan. "Yes, Rav. I want you."

Every inch of him filling her body was a pleasure she hadn't thought possible. All the remaining feelings of being sold, the ugliness of being someone's property, melted away. They belonged to each other. Of all the possible mates she could have had, this was the one that had to be. The Maker's hand had guided them.

Nesiara arched with a groan as he slid deeper inside. He moved in a slow rhythm inside her, the wet friction a pleasure making her want more. She clutched the sheets as his hands stroked her body, hands running over her breasts or clutching her hips, his mouth on her neck and ear. It was so impossibly good, yet she wanted more. She moaned. " Please, Rav. I don't want gentle anymore. I want to feel everything from you."

Raviathan knelt before her, his head back, the tendons of his throat standing out, and he took in a long, slow breath. Nesiara wondered if she had said the wrong thing, but when he looked back down at her, there was a hunger in his night dark eyes. Hunger. For her. She felt powerful, as if she had never known fear.

"Rav." She rocked her hips up to press against him. My husband. You are mine as I am yours.

"You want this rough? Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Your will, my wife." He held her knees up to angle in fast and deep. Nesiara clutched at the sheets. She had asked, but she had not expected this intensity of feeling. His hands grasped her hips, his grip possessive, as their bodies drummed together. He took her legs and placed them high against his chest, the back of her thighs held close together against his stomach. Panting, he rested a second and kissed her ankle. She felt the hard pumping muscles of his body as he moved deep inside. She worried that his father could hear them down below. She did her best to stifle her cries, but that was like holding back a flooding river.

He hugged her legs to his chest and pulled out. Nesiara started to curl with the loss as her body ached for more. He moved slowly, agonizingly, teasing after making her skin tender to his touch. He shifted a little to improve the position then held her legs tightly together. He entered, barely inside, and left. The torture as he played her was maddening, like an itch just out of reach, impossible to scratch and impossible to ignore. He started to speed up this little penetration as she groaned deep in her throat. She wanted to move so that she could get the some satisfaction, but he held her tight. How had he learned to make love like this? She ached and throbbed and wanted. Her hands clutched hard at the sheets balling them up in her fists. It was agony the way he kept brushing her skin, teasing her but not enough to bring her yet.

Letting her legs fall, he plunged in hard then started pumping quickly. She cried out as the orgasm hit, sending warmth down her thighs and into her belly. She writhed as he kept up the pace, and the ecstasy didn't stop. This new skin of hers that wanted his touch cried out with the overload. When she was spent, weak and hot, he thrust one final time before slumping down on top of her.

He lay there for a minute to catch his breath with her legs clasped around his hips. When he exited, she writhed with an agonized groan. He shifted his weight to the side then caressed her cheek and kissed her. He was still breathing heavily when he asked, "Are…are you happy?"

She smiled at him in loose languor. "Very much so. And you, my husband?"

He grinned back as he kissed her. "Yes, my wife. Very happy."

"Not boring."

He turned to blow out the candle then returned to snuggle with her under the blankets. They couldn't help but wiggle against each other for a bit. The openness they shared was so fun and new, a relief from the furtive relationships of the past. They could lie together for hours and touch at their pleasure. They both giggled a little as they played.

His desire continued to make her feel powerful. She loved hearing the happy groans he made when she rubbed her breasts against him. She loved how his hands wanted to touch her and explore, how his naked body pressed close to her. I am his wife, she thought with a thrill. This is the man who unlocked her and let all her desires free. Raviathan asked quietly as his body moved to caress hers, "Do you want to have children?"

Nesiara's arm stroked his back, and she marveled at the hardness of his muscles. "I'm not sure. It seems a little scary. Labor is so painful. I don't know if I can go through that. But, it's not like we have a choice. If it happens, it happens."

Raviathan settled to look at her in the silver moonlight. Their voices were low, barely above a whisper. It was silly really considering their mostly failed attempts to stay quiet earlier. "I really want children. My aunt was an herbalist and physician, and she taught me how to end pregnancies safely or give the mother extra support to make a healthy child. You have choices. I know how to make an ointment that will make pregnancy unlikely too. I can give you that, but I really want to have children with you. Imagine a little girl with your blue eyes and lovely skin. I can't think of a better gift from the Maker."

"So, you'll help me with a baby?" She would have never guessed he had those skills. Nothing had been said during their marital negotiations. That would have made him more favorable in her parents' eyes. Maybe his father had been waiting to see if that would be necessary, but that didn't make sense either. Did the shaddain not know? That would have been grossly unprofessional.

Strong arms held her close. "Of course. I'll rub oil on your belly every day to keep your skin healthy, cook dinner so you can rest your feet. I know about medicine so I can keep you healthy, make the delivery easier. I'll be there every step of the way." Looking into his calm eyes, she knew he would do just that and that he would do so with joy. He nuzzled her. "I want to hold my child in my arms and smell her baby skin. Hold her when she cries as new teeth develop."

"Why are you so sure you'll have a girl?"

"I don't know," he said snuggling in her warm softness. "I guess I've just always imagined a girl. I'd be happy with a boy too."

"You'll change diapers?" That had always sent the men she knew out of the room.

"Of course. I've done that before with my younger cousins. The first year can be really tiring, especially with feeding. I want to help you as much as I can."

There was a softness about him that touched her heart. "You're going to be a great father." He kissed her with a contented smile. "You know, Rav, a physician is a good career. Better than almost any elf I know. How come we didn't know about that?"

Raviathan sighed, his breath caressing her neck. "My father doesn't want me to practice medicine. I do a little bit around the alienage, but it has to be kept a secret. He didn't want me to tell you about it either."

"Why?"

"Sometimes templars confuse medicine with magic."

"Templars? But… that doesn't make any sense."

Raviathan bit his lips, studying her. "Sweetheart, I'll tell you another time, but I don't want to think about that right now. Please?"

She returned his gaze, saw the sorrow and pleading. "You'll tell me later?"

"Of course."

"Fine," she said letting her fingers trail up and down his chest, a gesture that was as natural as waking up to the sun each morning. "But you'll help me?"

"Anything you need, Ness, I'll do for you," he said squeezing her tight. "You don't have to be alone."

She snuggled close, putting her head in the crook of his neck. Thank you Maker for lighting my path. Thank you Maker for this gift. Let me prove worthy of his love. "Thank you, Rav."

He breathed against her ear, "My wife."

She started to feel that hidden part of him begin press against her stomach. So soon, she thought amazed. "Rav?"

The tip of her ear was gently sucked as his hands roamed down her back. He caressed her buttock, squeezing her close. His movement against her became more rhythmic. "Yes, my wife?"

She traced fingertips down his side. His lean muscles guided her hand as she touched him, drawing closer to that secret part of him. He groaned so close to her ear she got chills. His cock hardened under her fingers. He squeezed her butt again before running a hand down her thigh to lift it up on his hip then rolled her on her back. Using his mouth, he began to tease her breasts. One tongue tip flicked her nipple as his thumb stroked the other. He settled his mouth to tease and suck her lovingly. Maker, she thought, such a gift.

With a surge of possessive need, she pushed him off. He lay on his back, the moonlight creating a bright slash across his chest. She could see him in the light, his hardened muscles so different from all the skinny elves she had seen. He was almost fully erect. She stared at him with no little amazement. He wasn't shy, at least not with her. Again, that thrill. He wanted her, and it felt right when he was inside her.

"Ness, I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" He stopped as she leaned down to fondle his ear with her mouth and felt him press up against her thigh. It was her turn. He let out a long moan as one hand continued to fondle her breast, a touch that made her groin ache. His eyes were closed, mouth open in pleasure as she suckled his ear. He shivered with growing desire. He was fully hard and pressing up against her thigh. She touched him, marveling at his strength as she continued nibbling his ear. She reveled in her newfound power. Someone so strong was devoted to her and responded eagerly to her. This time it was her turn to tease, her turn to bring their pleasure.

She straddled him. He helped position her as she slowly slid down with a long moan. If she hadn't still been wet from before, she was after his tongue had teased her breasts. It was faster this time. He kept his hands on her hips as he started thrusting from below. He felt sharper when she was on top. Nesiara clenched each time she slowly rose up and felt his grip tighten on her hips. The worship was back in each of his low groans, in the way he watched her pale breasts bounce with their rhythm, the rose pink nipples high, caressed by moonlight. His hands explored her body as she rode him, over her breasts and across her shoulders, down her sides and thighs. The reverence in his dark eyes made her feel like a holy thing.

The orgasm built slowly with her strokes. It budded and warmed her middle and down her legs. With a soft cry she slumped down clutching his shoulders as she quivered. He rolled her on her back and pumped hard to make the ecstasy peak and last. Blood pounded through her body as if at the end of long race when she was weak and too light headed to make sense of the world. He was there, constantly sliding inside her sensitive skin to make her buck. She clutched him, reveled in his fevered need to feel her. He had to clasp a hand over her mouth when she began to moan too loudly, but his mouth on her long ear made it impossible to stop. She wanted to cry and gasp it felt so unbelievably good. He came a few minutes later with a gasp of pleasure.

Heat poured from her skin as if she had turned into an oven. Shaking as blood continued to make her whole body pulse, Nesiara cracked open the window to let the winter night in. With the breeze coming in Raviathan felt comfortable enough to snuggle. She could almost feel the responding beat of his body through their skin. For a few moments, they couldn't move, only shift against each other. He gently pushed Nesiara on her side to face away then molded his body against hers. He kissed her on the back of the neck as one arm hugged her from behind. "You're so sweet, Ness."

She giggled in her dazed state. "Was that a pun?"

It took him a second before he chuckled. "It wasn't intended to be." His rich baritone was right next to her ear, and she wondered again at her luck. He nuzzled her neck. "My sweet Ness, hmm? I think that's more of a play on words."

"Ooh. Very lucky for you. I can't have a punny husband." He groaned as she giggled. After a few minutes, she closed the window as he pulled up the blankets. She faced him, reveling in a wonderful whole bodied looseness she had never experienced before. Oh she was a lucky one. "Rav?"

"Yes, my sweet Ness?"

She smiled, enjoying the nickname. "Tell me something about yourself."

He nuzzled her face, his nose gliding over her cheekbone. "What would you like to know?"

"I want to know something about you that no one else knows."

"You want to know one of my secrets, hmm?

"I told you mine."

"This is true. Okay, but you have to promise not to tell anybody."

"Promise."

"Nobody knows about this. Not even Shianni."

She giggled then nestled closer. "I promise I won't tell a soul."

"Alright. You promised, so here goes. Since my earliest memories, I love to read, even before I learned all my letters. Alarith never had enough books, and my parents could only afford so many. I would get bored at night. Eventually my parents got me a lute, but this was before that happened.

"So, you know we live right next to the wall. Late at night, when everyone was asleep, I would sneak out the window, across our roof, then up the wall. It's only fifteen feet, and I found all these old cracks to get to the top. I couldn't go when the moon was too full or the guards would spot me. Once on the wall, I would sneak across by jumping from roof to roof."

"You could have fallen!"

"Shhh." He continued in a low whisper, "I was a kid. I didn't think anything about it. I just seemed like fun. Now I realize what danger I was in. But, that's not the whole secret.

"So, there I was, high above the city. Not too far from here is a bann's manor. I went in through a window and found myself in a hallway. It was dark, so I wasn't too worried. I was really lucky and one of the first rooms I went into was the bann's library. It was like finding paradise. For months I would go to that library and read until almost dawn."

"Did you ever take any?"

"Oh no. If the bann found a book missing, they might get suspicious and add guards or security. There would go my paradise. Also, my mother would have gotten creative with a punishment if she found a book they hadn't paid for. No question who the culprit would be."

"What about sleep?"

"I'd sleep over at Shianni's while her mother worked."

"What if you were caught?"

"I was going to pretend to be a servant. Some servants have to live there because they can't get back before curfew and are needed through the night. I'd be some errand boy sent to get the young master his glass of water. It's a weak excuse I know, but I was a child. But I'm getting there. So, this is after almost a year, I went to the library. I remember I was reading a book on the history of dragon killers in Nevarra. It was so fascinating. I had been reading about dragons for almost a month. This book was on the tactics they used for different ages of dragons. Did you know that only females get wings, and that's… well. I won't go into it now, but I thought it was amazing. I didn't even hear the footsteps coming until too late."

Nesiara gasped. He nodded then continued. "I was sitting by the fire reading. I had my back to the wall so the fire would angle on the book for the most light. In walked a guard and a human servant. I went completely still. I mean, story or no, there was no way to get out of this. I was caught."

Nesiara's eyes went wide in horror. "What happened?"

"There I was. The terror of it hit me. I didn't know if the guard would beat me first, but I was betting on it. And after they were done beating me, I'd be in prison. My family would have no idea what happened to me either. I'd be left to rot in a cold, dark cell and never see them again. I thought the one way out of this would be to make a break for it. See if I could outrun him, get to a window and escape. I was about to throw the book at him to distract him, ready to dodge around his legs. But then the servant giggled.

"Ness, you have the cutest frown line."

"Get back to the story."

"Here I am trapped by malicious humans. Maybe she liked switching elves. I still hadn't moved when she said, 'but someone might catch us.' Then he said, 'Don't worry about it. Everyone's asleep.' That's when she unlaced her bodice and pulled down the top of her dress. He took off his gauntlets and started touching her. I thought, no way. He's in full armor. They can't really be… then she went down to her knees. She took off his cod piece and began kissing his private bits."

Nesiara put a hand over her mouth as she tried to keep her laughter silent. He laughed a little with her. "I had never seen anything like that before. I was just shocked."

It took her a long time to get her laughter under control. Every time she started to get a handle on herself, Raviathan would say something else or make a face that started it up again. "Oh my poor little elven boy. What did you do?"

He shrugged. "What could I do? I couldn't leave without being noticed, so I slowly slunk back in the shadows and waited. Turned out to be a very educational night."

"I bet."

He kissed her, smiling. "Our secret."

They settled in close, reveling in the freedom of their bodies. She asked, "Did that happen again?"

He stroked her hair. "Never went back. It was a close call and probably one that I needed seeing as what could have happened. My parents got me my lute a week later, so I was happy enough. They even gave me a fiddle, harp, and pipes a year after that because I was enjoying it so."

"I'd love to hear you play." Nesiara couldn't remember the last time she felt this happy or secure. When she and her sister had dreamed of their match as children, they had laughed over some of the worse matches they saw: old men with too young wives making both frustrated, a quiet elf paired with a frivolous and high strung girl whom he held in constant contempt, two elves who were both so stubborn they couldn't agree on a name for their child- a dispute which their hahren had to settle.

Most couples settled into their marriages between the time of their handfasting and official ceremony or, at the latest, within a year, but there were enough exceptions to make a bad match a concern. If a marriage wasn't settled within a year, it never would be, and those couples grew bitter. Though rare, bad couples had a way of drawing the eye like a stain on a white dress. Nesiara and her sister had both seen too many couples fighting, usually over money, enough that they knew they wanted a calm man. Nesiara sent another silent prayer of thanks to the Maker that she had gotten this man as her husband. He was so sweet and affectionate with just the right touch of danger in bed.

He kissed her temple. "Tomorrow."

"Then I suppose you can stay here tonight."

His chuckle warmed her. "You have my gratitude, my sweet Ness."

She pressed her body in for a long kiss. She whispered, "I'm glad it's you, Rav." She settled in next to him ready for sleep. "I'm glad you're my husband."


	5. Married Life – What of Dreams

Cyrion took a moment to adjust to his surroundings as he woke. He hadn't slept in this bed since he was a child. It was an odd feeling, to revisit his childhood days, but he was filled with the mellow satisfaction that perhaps life was finally making a turn for the better. Not since Solyn died had he felt this hopeful. The rough patch may finally be over. Grateful that his new daughter was the change that they both needed, Cyrion decided he should visit the Chantry and offer thanks to the Maker before he went to work today. A prayer tied to the vhenadahl was essential for this gift of peace.

The floor was warm from the oven below, and he heard the familiar sounds of cooking. Cyrion tied a braid to keep his hair out of his eyes and dressed for work in the dim predawn light offered by the tiny windows. By the time he came down, his son was placing their breakfast on the table with Nesiara's left on a warming stone. Raviathan turned when he heard the creak of the ladder and smiled. Keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping elf above, Raviathan said, "She's wonderful father. She's beautiful, and easy to talk to, and so smart. I can't believe she made that ornament."

Cyrion's eyes crinkled, and the smile lines in his face deepened in a way that Raviathan hadn't seen in two years. "It does my heart good to see you two. I hoped that once you saw her things would work out."

Raviathan closed the distance and hugged him. "Thank you. I'm sorry I was difficult yesterday morning."

"Son," Cyrion said, "I only want your happiness. For years now I haven't seen you smile. I know this was quick, but I thought you needed a change." He stroked his son's hair and felt Raviathan's arms tighten in response. There was so much of Adaia in him. They both had that infectious enthusiasm that drew other people to them. When they entered a room, he could feel it even when his back was turned. Adaia had understood the effect she had on others, had been trained for it, and used it to their advantage when she needed to. Cyrion was sure Raviathan was unaware that he had the same effect. "I know you're young, but I think it's time we both started looking to the future again."

Raviathan kissed his father's cheek and whispered, "Thank you."

They sat at the table, both of them keeping their heads bowed, though there was a joyous peace to their meal that hadn't been there a day ago. Cyrion's egg was scrambled, and it seemed his son had remembered they had salt and pepper for the first time in two years. Their porridge had raisins, cream, and honey mixed in. Cyrion smiled. Today there would be a prayer to the vhenadahl and a candle lit for the Maker. Hopefully grandchildren wouldn't be far off.

Cyrion left the ramshackle apartment building and wondered if they should look for a new place to live. It had been close to ideal when his son was young and in need of a place to train. Better would have been a place with a basement that would have muffled sound, but basements often flooded, were expensive, and difficult to come by. Still, they made it work by thickening the walls and having good shutters. He hoped his son wouldn't pass on his training to his children. Adaia had been insistent, and, in his youth, he couldn't see the harm in it.

While Adaia's training of their son had been optional, even something of an indulgence, his son's training with Solyn had been vital. Those had been hard years to get through and ones he was more than glad to put behind him. Thank the Maker that Raviathan had made it, but it still gave Cyrion the occasional nightmare. Thoughts of finding a different apartment stopped as he considered his future grandchildren. He had lived in that apartment since he was born. It was home and a good one at that. He was getting too far ahead of things when he thought about expanding their home to make room for grandchildren.

His thoughts were interrupted when Valendrian spied him. It was early yet, and Cyrion could afford to spend a few minutes with his hahren without being late for work. Valendrian's baritone rang with clear confidence in the empty street. Raviathan could have the same command to his voice if he chose, but he remained soft spoken rather than authoritative. Maybe one day his son would step into the role that was natural to him, Cyrion thought as the two men met and exchanged greetings.

Feeling no need to delay, Valendrian asked, "And how goes the new couple?"

The smile on Cyrion's face was all that needed to be said, but he answered, "Well. Very well. I do not expect to wait long for grandchildren."

For the sake of his friend, Valendrian smiled back, trying to hide his relief, but Cyrion caught it. Many of the adults and elders would be heaving the same sigh of relief, though they would try to hide it as they had hidden their misgivings all these years. The banishment of a child, any child, was painful for the community, and Raviathan would have been an exceptionally difficult case. Everyone knew what happened to the lost children.

No one else was around this early, so Cyrion added quietly, "I know he's been difficult. Thank you for being patient all these years."

"Well. Solyn was very respected. Many here were willing to overlook things for her sake. And for his." There were other reasons, but neither was willing to speak of them in the open no matter how vacant the streets were. Seeing Cyrion's discomfort, Valendrian added, "I never once thought he was a bad boy. Just… just having a hard time adjusting to things. Now that he has a wife to help settle him down, I think things are going to go well for the lad."

"I… I hope so," Cyrion said with a sorrow that never left him, even in moments of joy.

Valendrian said, his voice filled with compassion, "I've watched that boy grow from a babe. Nearly every child here follows his lead. When they're in trouble, they turn to him as much as they turn to me. Give a few years, and I think he'll make the alienage proud." When Cyrion looked up with a spark of hope in his eyes, Valendrian said, "I've had my eye on him for some time now."

The elder elf felt his chest tighten at those words. "I had thought, well, hoped, but I wasn't sure."

"There's a reason everyone in the alienage knows him, my friend. Now, tell me about our newest member. She seems to be a delightful girl."

At that Cyrion brightened, and he extolled the virtues of his new daughter.

~o~O~o~

Raviathan crept up the ladder with one hand, a plate of food nestled in the other. He set the plate on the chest next to his bride. With her hair spread out on the pillow, she was even more beautiful in the dawning sunlight. He watched her for a moment, her mouth parted slightly in sleep, and wondered at the changes that could happen in so short a time. All the major events that had happened in his life had been abrupt and violent. Of the four major turning points, three involved death. For the first time a major change was for the better. His wife with her artist's hands had already lifted the gloom from his home. Raviathan leaned down and kissed her temple then her jaw. She stirred and stretched. "Wake up my darling wife."

At that she smiled. "You wake up too early."

"I have breakfast here for you."

Nesiara blinked and looked over at the chest. "In bed? You want me to eat in bed? You're weird."

Raviathan chuckled and slowly peeled back the blankets. "I want to see my beautiful wife, but I don't think she'll consent to having breakfast downstairs naked." When her breasts were exposed he leaned down to fondle one with his mouth.

Nesiara groaned and arched her back to press further into his mouth. Her fingers reached up to run through his hair. "Do that, dear husband, and my breakfast will go cold."

Reluctantly Raviathan left, his eyes on her dark pink and wet nipple. "Then you better hurry and eat. I won't wait for long."

Nesiara sat up and wrapped the blankets over one shoulder to keep warm, but she left one breast exposed for her husband's pleasure. She took her plate and ate. "So. What are the plans for today?"

"Well," Raviathan said with his gaze locked on her chest. "I'm going to be late for Alarith's. I've already decided that he should expect a newly married man to be late. I'm going to watch you eat, then I'm going to watch your naked body do all sorts of interesting things that make husbands late for work." He paused watching Nesiara's nipple stiffen. "I think I'm going to be very late."

"You should be in bed with me."

Deciding she was right, Raviathan undressed. Nesiara watched him as intently as he had watched her. Catching her gaze, Raviathan finished pulling off his clothes. He lay in bed next to her, over the blankets so she could see him. She had stopped eating, her eyes roving over the length of him. "You're going to get cold."

Raviathan worked the blankets until he was under them then curled up next to his wife. "My darling wife is already so protective of me."

Nesiara put aside her half eaten breakfast to cuddle with him. They kissed and touched, and she felt him harden in her hand. "Rav, is this alright?" He let out a little 'mmm' of pleasure, his low voice purring near her ear. She closed her eyes at the sound ready to have ten of his babies. "I… uh, I mean." His hand, cold against the inside of her thigh, pushed her apart so he was between her legs. "You don't mind, I mean, you don't think less of me?"

"Less of you?" He paused, lifting his head from her neck to look at her. She could feel him there, hard between her legs. He was moving back and forth slowly, a promise of what was to come. She still couldn't get over the feel of all that bare skin caressing her or that they didn't have to hide or hurry. "What are you talking about?"

"You don't think I'm too easy, do you? This, I mean, I'm not being wrong, am I?"

He was gentle when he kissed her. "I can't believe you're seriously worried about that." He moved inside her, and her head went back in a groan. Maker he felt good. Like he was made just for her. "Ness," he nibbled at her ear, "I think you're so beautiful. For the rest of my life, I'm going to remember last night, how you looked in the moonlight. I love it that you enjoy this. I love that you want to take pleasure from me. Please Ness. Don't ever be embarrassed."

Nesiara groaned deep in her throat. She took his hand and placed it over her breast. His thumb rubbed her nipple, irritating it in the most wonderful way. This was her husband she kept telling herself, amazed with the idea. This is the rest of my life. I'm going to cook his meals and care for his children. She saw herself at the stove, stirring soup in a steaming pot, a toddler playing on the floor and a second baby in a small crib near the window. Another little pot had carrots that she was cooking for the baby's meal. Her husband would come through the door, and though she could feel his presence, she wouldn't turn around. She would smile as he came up to her, tired from work, and hugged her from behind. Only after he kissed her did would he go to the baby, lifting the little bundle out and cradling his child in his arms. Their first born would be there, pulling on his pants for attention, so he would sit by the window with a baby in his arms and his toddler playing on his lap. The baby had his skin and fine whips of blonde hair.

The image evaporated when her body tightened. This time he didn't hold his hand over her mouth when she cried out. When he finished, he shifted to the side pulling her with him. His eyes were heavy lidded, and he lightly brushed back the hair in her face. "You look sleepy," she said.

"I love being here with you." He kissed her forehead and entwined their legs. "Do I make you happy Ness?"

"I'll give you three guesses."

"No."

"Wrong," she said and gently bit him.

"Maybe?"

"So insecure," she said and bit him again.

"Then yes?"

"Still can't get it right." She moved to lie on top of him, his hands going about her waist then lower to squeeze her rear. "You fill me with absolute joy."

They spent the next two hours in fluctuating states of arousal and fulfillment. They dozed at times or told stories between lazy, open touches. "You promised you would play for me."

"I will." He shifted then so one leg was pressed up between hers, and his head lay on her shoulder. "Right now I'm admiring your marvelous breasts."

"They are, aren't they."

Raviathan grinned in dreamy contentment. He cupped one breast, his fingers exploring the velvety soft skin of her areola. "You know Ness, I really can't believe you made that ornament."

"Why not?"

Raviathan snuggled in, holding her close with his lips caressing the nape of her neck as he spoke. "It doesn't look like something that belongs in this world. It's like you took lights from the Fade and bound them together with a memory of dance. When I look at it, I keep expecting to wake up."

"A memory of dance? What an odd way to phrase that."

"That's how the Fade works," Raviathan said and kissed her collar bone.

"How do you know about the Fade?" she asked skeptically. "All it is, is dreams. I don't even remember mine most of the time."

"What was the last dream you remember?"

"Um…" Nesiara shifted on her back as she searched her memory. "I sort of remember being in my house, but we lived inside a large tree. I was in my house, the one back in Highever, and it was inside a tree though there's no way it would fit in real life."

"What kind of tree?"

"Willow I think. I was annoyed because our stove kept breaking, and I wanted my mother to make cookies."

"I'll make you cookies," Raviathan said as he shifted so he lay half on top of her. "All sorts of yummy cookies, just for you."

Nesiara giggled when he kept kissing her neck. "Oh Maker, we're never getting out of this bed, are we."

"Never. We're just going to have to live on Fade dreams." His fingers caressed her lower abdomen, up and down just below her bellybutton, and a wanton pulse responded in her. It was amazing all the different ways he had of making her desire grow. To her surprise, he sat up and then pulled her to sit in his lap, her legs on either side. With her help, he wrapped the blankets loosely around them. "Your back is covered?"

"Yes," she said. "I've never… I don't know what to do."

Their faces were inches apart so he could kiss her easily. His kisses were tender and sweet, his arms around her back holding her securely, and Nesiara let go of the worry that she didn't know how to please him. "We're going to make love slow," he said, his voice soft and close. He started rocking his hips in slow, easy movements.

Nesiara put her arms around his neck, again that feeling that this was her future. "We are making love, aren't we?"

"Don't you feel that way?"

It looked like she would break his heart if she said no. That openness to her was drawing her in. All the jaded feelings that she, like all elves, lived with didn't belong here with them in their little cocoon. She felt like a flower opening. "I do husband." She rose up to nibble his ear.

"Keep doing that my sweet Ness," Raviathan whispered. His hands caressed down her back, over the curve of her rear, and explored the backs and insides of her thighs.

He pulled his ear away to kiss her. She wished she were a better artist so she could create something as beautiful as his eyes when he looked at her. 

This position was a little more awkward, and she couldn't move more than small flexing motions, but she loved that he was so close. "Rav, are you ever going to get tired of me?"

"The sun will fall into the sea first my sweet Ness." He held one of her breasts up so he could work it with his mouth.

Nesiara let her head dip back with a moan. "I'm going to have to check to see if that tongue is made of gold."

He looked back up at her with a self satisfied smile, but as she watched, awe replaced the expression. "Oh Ness." Maker, he had pretty eyes. The black lashes and dark skin contrasted with their whites and colors making them look like jewels.

She saw it on his face then and looked over at the window. The sun hit her ornament refracting bright, compact rainbows and blinding shards of pure, white light. Blues, lavenders, and pinks shaded her skin. She smiled at her husband's reverence then blew a hard breath at the ornament. All the colors and light started shifting about the room in a merry jig. Nesiara turned back to him expecting to see the joy he had last night when he saw his gift. "Rav? What's wrong?"

A tear ran down his face, and he touched the shifting colors on her skin. Nesiara thought she could drown in his eyes. "I've never seen anything more beautiful in my life." They moved together, bodies and mouths united.

~o~O~o~

Nesiara got one bite of cold breakfast before Raviathan pulled her back to the bed. Their blankets were a jumbled mess. She laughed at his hunger. "Rav, you are so bad."

"Bad?"

She could feel him soft in the cleft of her butt. She pressed her pelvis back against him and smiled when she heard the expected pleased murmur. "You haven't gone to work. You haven't played for me. You haven't told me how you know about the Fade. Bad husband."

"I thought my natural charm made up for that. Alright then." He lay back, and Nesiara rearranged their blankets so her feet wouldn't stick out and get cold. She lay back, half on top of him, and his arm went around her shoulders. "Remember that library I told you about last night? That's how I learned. The Fade is linked to our world, and when we sleep or die, our souls go there, but it isn't like another world. It's best to think about the Fade as lying right underneath everything that exists here. If our world is solid and material, the Fade is emotional and ever changing. You know how an object can have sentimental value? It might not be worth anything really, but it's valuable to you? When that happens, you and the Fade are interacting."

"Really?"

"Yeah. An object in the Fade isn't physical. It's emotional. The emotions you put into it, like a favorite toy or flower, give it substance in the Fade. The way you think of a pot as being real, spirits of the Fade think of a memory as being real. The spirits of the Fade don't understand our world. For them it feels like they're wandering through a frozen wasteland."

"I thought only demons came through the Fade. It use to make me and my sister scared when an old auntie would tell us stories. After she told us those stories, we were afraid to go to sleep." She smiled in memory. "My parents were so confused by their hysterical daughters. My grandmother calmed us down and told us only mages could bring demons into the world."

"That mean old auntie." Raviathan squeezed her close. "Don't you worry Ness. Your grandmother was right. The connection mages have to the Fade is much different."

"I'm surprised you know all this," Nesiara said.

"I thought it was interesting. Anyway, when you dream, it isn't so much about what you dream as the significance of what those things mean in general and to you in particular. Some symbols are more powerful than others because of the collective souls who have attached meaning to a symbol. As an artist, I think you understand how that works. If you see a chrysanthemum in the Fade, it's linked to death in one way or another because it's the last blooming flower before winter. Harvest time to the Satinalia Annum is a time for remembrance of those gone, and the chrysanthemum is a reminder of their life. Think of every person who has ever mourned and remembered their loved ones on the Satinalia Annum, and you'll understand why that flower is such a powerful symbol and why the Fade is thinned on that day. It's the collective emotions of every elf and human over thousands of years that went into shaping that symbol."

"Wow," Nesiara said. "When you say it like that, it seems so weighty." Nesiara shifted and could hear the steady thumping of his heart under her ear. Her grandmother had warned her to be careful with the symbols she used. It had been mostly words thus far. Nesiara studied the crystals she had made for their marriage: lilac for love at first sight, lavender for enchantment and enduring passion, pale pink for gratitude and grace, blue for trust and depth, indigo for insight, purple for rare wisdom, silver to support and connect them all, and crystal to light their lives.

When her sister had made an ornament of greens and blues for her husband, their grandmother had warned that it would be too sedate. When Anesa offered to add red or orange to liven the energy, their grandmother forbade it. The clashing colors would cause a disastrous marriage. Harmonious colors for a harmonious marriage. Nesiara had thought of her grandmother and her wisdom when she chose romantic colors that focused on a deeper relationship. Her husband was turning out to be something of a mystic. A very sexy mystic.

"The willow tree in your dream has a particular meaning independent of you," Raviathan continued, "but there's another reason why it was in your dream. I'm guessing you think of your home as a creative place."

"That's where I learned from my mother and grandmother. Sometimes we worked at the shop because there were tools there, like a small forge, but most of the time we worked at home."

"So," said Raviathan, "the willow tree. What does it mean to you?"

"The wood is very flexible. It was useful for certain kinds of crafts, like wood weaving."

"No, that's practical. What do you feel when you think of willow trees?"

Nesiara thought it over."There's curly willow, but I always think of weeping willow. I remember the first time I heard that name, and I thought it was sad. There's this tree that's very pretty, but it's always mourning."

"When did you have this dream?"

"It was before Howe came to Highever."

"After you started hearing about marriage negotiations?" Nesiara nodded. "Here's what I think," Raviathan said. "Trees are a powerful symbol in the Fade, and each has a different meaning. Willow is a creative tree, and you associate your home with creation. There are lots of creative trees, but I think you were also sad, which is why that tree was specific in your dream. You think of the tree in mourning, and this is when you know you're going to leave your family. You and you're family are mourning the coming split when you're married and a loss of security. That's why your home was inside the tree. Cookies are a child's symbol. When adults dream about cookies, it's because they want something from childhood or the innocence of childhood. I think you wanted your mother to comfort you, but she either didn't know how you felt or was too distracted. You were annoyed because this was going to be the last of the time you had with her, but she didn't think it was as special or didn't put enough care into it."

Nesiara propped herself up on her arms and stared at him in amazement. "How did you know?"

Raviathan smiled gently at her. "That was an easy one. Some symbols are more complex or have multiple meanings. Cats for example can be innocence, birth or desire for children, death, mystery, bad luck, joyful play, being hunted, hidden knowledge, all sorts of things. Because they're so varied, it depends on the context and your own feelings about them. Things like mirrors are more complex because you're looking within yourself at something that you've been hiding away from or are afraid of. Introspection isn't easy for everyone, especially when it comes to truths we don't want to face."

"You don't think less of me?"

"Less?"

"My dream was sort of selfish," Nesiara said looking down. "My parents were never bad to me, and…"

Raviathan kissed and pulled her close so she was resting on his chest. "We can't help our feelings or dreams, only what we do with that knowledge." He stroked her hair. "Why do you think I offered to make you cookies?"

Of all things, she never expected he would be so easy to love. "Do all plants have special meanings?"

"Some more than others," Raviathan said. "Obviously people have to know about them to invest meaning, so lesser known or new plants very little. Trees, flowers, fruits and vegetables, toxic or healing plants have more. Most people don't care enough about shrubs to invest them with much meaning. Briar bush and ferns are significant."

Briar bush made sense. It was a threatening, ominous plant. Fern? "What does fern mean?"

Shifting so he could lay his head on her chest, Raviathan answered, "The fern is actually quite sacred. It symbolizes creation at the beginning. The unfurling of the fern leaves is the sacred spiral of creation unfurling from the beginning of time, so fern leaves represent the essence of creation and recreation and new beginnings."

Ideas started to dance in Nesiara's mind. She had brought her tools, but she needed some raw materials. Oh, the things she was going to create when she had time. "What about the plant downstairs? It's a strange looking thing."

"The aloe? Well, the aloe symbolizes grief."

"Why would you keep something like that around? I'm never going to look at it the same way again."

Raviathan caressed her with the back of his hand. "I get dry hands in winter and sometimes my skin cracks if I don't take care of it. Aloe has very rich sap that helps."

She raised his hand to kiss it. "I wish I had pretty hands."

Nesiara was taken aback at the wounded expression on her husband's face. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with your hands."

"I didn't say anything was wrong," Nesiara said stroking his prominent wrist bone, "just they're not pretty. You've got gorgeous hands."

He took her hand in his and kiss her palm. "I think your hands are perfect."

"You'd be the first to say so," Nesiara said with a laugh. "I saw a noble woman in a parade once. She had the most beautiful hands. Delicate and fine boned as a little girl who had spent her life surrounded by velvets and silks. Who had never so much as scraped a knee. She was very pale too. Not a single flaw in her skin. It was like she was a life sized Orlesians doll made out of porcelain. Since then, I've wished I knew how to make porcelain so I could make something as pristine. I can do some clay work, but nothing of that variety."

"Ladies' hands are as useless as they are. Give me a wild dandelion over a fussy franklinia any day. Sweet Ness, I think your hands alone are a hundred times better than any noble's, and Maker knows you're more beautiful than any of them." Raviathan said and took her breast into his mouth and flicked her nipple with his tongue. Nesiara twisted so his face was between her breasts. They were never going to get out of this bed. When she started her journey from Highever, a hundred possible future husbands waiting for her, she had never imagined this. He slid his smooth face between her breasts, kissing between them or on the sides, his lips caressing every inch of her softness. She tensed her arms to squeeze her breasts together, and he looked up at her with a sly grin. "How in the Maker's name did I get so lucky?"

She narrowed her eyes, determined to tease him with a little aloofness, but oh how her need was pulling at her again. "So, if our souls go to the Fade when we sleep or die, does that mean when we dream we could meet the spirits of those who have passed?"

"What, like have a conversation with your great, great grandmother?"

"Something like that. I'd love to be able to talk to my grandmother again. Don't you feel the same about your relatives?"

"Maker no," Raviathan said which startled Nesiara. He turned to look her in the face, his neck resting on her breast. "Ness, the people I love, I want them to go beyond the Fade and to the Maker. The souls that stay in the Fade are the lost ones. Sometimes they become spirits, but more often they become shades who never stop longing for life again. I want my loved ones to be at peace."

Nesiara grazed the edge of Raviathan's ear with a fingertip, and his eyes became heavy lidded with the pleasure of it. She hoped he was getting hard again. "But you grieve. I could see it when I came."

Raviathan kissed her breast before settling his head comfortably on her chest. "Sure I grieve. But if it's between seeing them again or not, I'd much rather their souls be at peace. Everything dies, sweet Ness. In time we'll see them again."

Deciding that she didn't care about teasing him just now, Nesiara pushed him off then straddled him. His hands roamed up and down her thighs, and he pulled her close, his hands stroking her bottom and lower back. "Dear husband. How did I get so lucky?"

"You didn't," he answered and rolled them over so he was on top and kissing her.

"Hey cousin," a female voice called from below.

Raviathan turned his head to the hole in the floor in annoyance. "Go away Shianni. I'm busy."

"Alarith's worried about you," she yelled back.

"I'm fine, now go away."

"You have deliveries to make," Shianni said.

"Shianni, go away!"

When Nesiara let out an 'oh' of surprise, Raviathan turned to see Shianni's laughing head poking out of the hole. Raviathan threw a pillow at her, and she ducked only to pop back up like a red headed gopher. "Cousin, don't tell me…"

"Maker's great hairy ass," Raviathan said and shifted off Nesiara. He covered her up then turned to glare at his cousin who was climbing up with the pillow in her hand. She set it against the chest next to their bed to lean on while she finished Nesiara's breakfast. Raviathan propped his head up on his hand, amusement glinting under the annoyance. "Shianni, I can't wait until you're married so I get to embarrass you."

Shianni covered her mouth so food wouldn't show while she laughed. "What did you expect cousin? You think the rest of the alienage fell into the abyss while you've been up here playing? Andraste's ass, people are going to be talking."

"People have always been talking," Raviathan grumbled.

"Not about her they haven't," Shianni said, and Nesiara frowned at the thought.

"We're married," Raviathan said, his arm going protectively around his bride. "Those blasted gossips can go to the Black City. We're perfectly within our rights. Aren't we my sweet Ness," he cooed at his wife. Shianni rolled her eyes and ate more of Nesiara's breakfast.

Nesiara giggled at the two before kissing her insistent husband back. "Rav, I would like to go to the Chantry today. To light a candle for my family."

"Shianni will take you."

"Not you?" Nesiara asked.

"I, apparently, have deliveries to make," Raviathan said.

"As if that's the real reason," Shianni said under her breath. Raviathan scowled at her.

Looking between the two, Nesiara asked, "What does that mean?"

"He hates the Chantry," Shianni said. "As long as I've known him, he's hated the Chantry."

"Not true," Raviathan said still scowling at his cousin. "I wasn't born hating them, but after the purge and that," he wanted to say bitch, but if Nesiara was devout, he didn't want to offend her, "woman blaming us for it, I lost any and all sympathy."

"But you believe in the Maker," Nesiara said in concern.

Raviathan's lips thinned and he looked down. "I believe in the Maker, but I don't like the Chantry."

Nesiara frowned in puzzlement at him. "I don't understand."

Raviathan sighed as he searched for a way to explain. "The Chantry isn't the Maker. They're just a pack of shems. I hate how the Chantry treats elves and their politics. And if the Chant of Light is a holy thing, they've no right to change it."

"They've changed the Chant of Light?" Shianni said in surprise. "I've never heard that."

"Oh yeah," Raviathan continued, to both women's interest. "They call them the dissonant verses when they don't like them. The Canticle of Shartan, the elven rebel who fought with Andraste, completely taken out because they wanted to get rid of the elven homeland in the Dales. The Maker might be god, but the Chantry is full of hateful shems who have their own agendas. The second they decided what to allow and what to take out, they took those words from the divine and delegitimized the entire creed. The Maker has turned his back on us, and it's a lie to say the Divine is able to talk to him. Ness," Raviathan began more calmly when he saw her troubled frown, "I don't want to take your faith from you, but I'm not the kind of person who will be able to share in it." He kissed Nesiara's temple. "Sweet Ness, don't be upset. I think these hands of yours are more divine than any priestess or building. I believe in you more than their words."

Shianni reached over and took Nesiara's hand. "It's okay Ness. I can take you as soon as you're dressed if you want. The Chantry is just on the other side of the Market, so it isn't too far."

"Thank you Shianni," Nesiara said. She was disappointed that her husband wouldn't be able to share her faith, but she wasn't disappointed in him. She shifted so her back was to him and pulled his arm so he was holding her close. At least it was something he had thought about and had conviction, and that spoke more to her than someone who was lazy in their beliefs. "Mmm," she murmured and snuggled into her husband's embrace. "I do suppose we should get out of bed."

"You two would starve if it wasn't for me," Shianni said. "Staying in bed until all hours."

"Go away," Raviathan said to Shianni. "We need to get dressed."

Shianni looked at him as if he were being rude. "So get dressed. I'm not stopping you."

"Shianni," Raviathan started but she interrupted him.

"Cousin," she said in exasperation, "like I haven't seen you naked a thousand times before. And besides, who do you think is going to measure Ness for her wedding clothes? You may know a little stitching, but you can't make clothes."

Raviathan opened his mouth to argue, but Nesiara squeezed his arm. "It's alright. Shianni is my cousin now too."

Shianni beamed smugly at Raviathan. "See," and she leaned up to kiss her new cousin. "At least you're marring a woman with sense." Raviathan and Nesiara had to pull their legs up when Shianni decided to sit at the foot of the bed. Raviathan gave his bride one last, reluctant kiss before the two left their bed to dress. Shianni absently watched her cousin pad across the room as she thought about the news going around the alienage. "One of the buildings has been sold."

"Which one?" Raviathan asked pulling on clean small clothes.

"You know the one on the southeast side next to the dripping sewage line? The one Nessa lives in?"

Raviathan paused as he searched for his warmest clean pair of patched pants. "You think her family will be okay? Her father is getting to be old." Raviathan explained to Nesiara, "Claye was married late. Was a farm hand who had to take care of his family first. It was another twenty years before they were able to have Nessa. She's only a year younger than we are, and she's really nice if a bit quiet. Actually, she's one…"

"Oh, holy Maker!" Both Nesiara and Raviathan turned to Shianni. The red head was standing on their bed and staring wide eyed at the crystal ornament. "How did I not see that before?"

Pride shown out of Raviathan's eyes, and he puffed out his chest. "Ness made it. It's her wedding gift to me."

Shianni looked at Nesiara with new eyes, and the other elf demurely continued to dress, but there was a knowing look to her small smile. Shianni turned back to the ornament and poked it a few times to see the light refract around the room. "Cousin, I don't know how you're going to get something half as worthy as that."

Raviathan straightened in indignation. "Shianni!"

"Well it's true," she said poking the ornament again. He pulled on a tunic over his shirt and gave his cousin a dark look which she ignored. "I've never seen anything that pretty before. Except maybe your mom. It's amazing."

Pursing his lips at his cousin, Raviathan strode over to Nesiara who was putting on her stockings. "Take care sweet Ness," he whispered next to her ear.

She kissed him in parting. "Don't worry about what she says."

Raviathan gave her a much more enthusiastic kiss goodbye. As he left, he gave Shianni a smart smack on the rump and grinned at her yelp. Nesiara would have told her she deserved it had she known her new cousin better. Instead she brushed out her hair and thought over what he had said about the Fade. It really was astonishing how much he knew. Shianni sat with an unceremonious thump on the bed behind her.

"Hey Ness. How you settling in?" Shianni took the brush from her and started working on her hair.

Shianni was careful over her ears, and the care Nesiara felt increased. Her new family had been nothing but wonderful. "I'm really happy here. It takes some getting used to everything. Is… is Rav always so sweet?"

Shianni laughed. "Unless he's teasing me, yeah." Hesitating, Shianni trailed her fingers through Nesiara's hair and wondered what was safe to talk about and what might already known or not. Whether Rav had told her or not, she was going to hear about it one way or another. "I know he's got a bit of a reputation. Some of it's deserved, and some of it's not, but what you're seeing is the real him. He can… well, sometimes he's a little hard to know, but he means well. Um. Has he… do you know about… uh, that he knows about… plants and things?"

How careful she was being, Nesiara thought. "He told me he knows medicine."

"Oh," Shianni said in obvious relief and started braiding her long hair as if they were sisters. "Did he tell you that it's sort of a secret?"

"Yes, but he didn't tell me why. He seemed really sad about it, so I didn't want to press."

Nesiara heard Shianni take and hold a long breath before letting it out. "You're going to find out, so I guess sooner is better. Rav learned all of that from his aunt. Solyn was never married, but she was very respected here and the most giving person I'd ever met. She was a little like one of those stern looking mothers who would sneak you a cookie as long as you didn't tell anyone. And if you needed to talk to someone, she would listen and never tell another soul if you didn't want her to. Don't mention her around Alarith though. They had sort of a thing, and Rav says she was considering marring him."

"She sounds… unusual." Marrying at a late age, but then to choose the marriage as well?

Shianni laughed lightly. "Determined, I'd say. After Rav's mother died the two of them were always together working. I know she was like a second mother to him. It was about a year and a half ago when she was killed."

"Was killed?"

"Keep your head straight," Shianni said, "or I'll have to rebraid that section. She was a really skilled healer. Ask her anything about herbs, and it was like she was reading a book. We're not exactly sure what happened, just that she went missing one day. It took us two weeks of searching all over Denerim. Rav was the one to find her. He wouldn't let anyone see except for Valendrian. Alarith threw a fit. I've never seen him that angry before or since, but Rav wouldn't budge. Because it had already been two weeks, he said there wasn't time for a proper funeral, so he and a few others took her body outside the city to be burned."

"That's so horrible," Nesiara said. No wonder he didn't want to talk about it. "Did you ever find out who did it?"

"That's just the thing. The day she disappeared, some of the men who work by the docks saw a group of four templars hanging around one of Solyn's suppliers. They thought it was strange at the time. Why would templars be there of all places, unless they were looking for an apostate."

Nesiara's breath caught. "She was an apostate?"

"Not at all," Shianni quickly assured her. "But she was a fantastic healer. You know what it's like being an elf. We're always the ones shems turn to when something bad happens. Any excuse to put us down. What we think happened was that someone turned her in. It could have been a supplier, she had connections of all sorts you know and not always the nicest of people, and maybe something went wrong. Uncle Cyrion and Valendrian think it was a bitter patient of hers. Rav will be the first to tell you healers can't do everything. Sometimes people just die, and there's no account for it. There," Shianni said and kissed Nesiara's hair. "I think that looks gorgeous. Let me see from the front."

Nesiara turned around, and Shianni smiled at her handiwork. The thick swept braids were high around her hair line then curved to the back as if her hair was an ethereal coronet. "I wish I had a sister," Shianni said. "It's so much fun to play with your hair."

"My sister and I fought all the time. Drove our parents to distraction." She squeezed Shianni's hand. "It's so strange coming to a new alienage. Thank you for being kind."

A faint pink colored Shianni's cheeks, but she looked pleased. "I… I'm sorry if I was rude yesterday. I started to feel like I was losing my cousins." She waved her hand to dismiss the thought. "Come on."

The two went down the stairs where their boots were kept. Nesiara asked, "But why think it was the templars? It could have been a coincidence. Just some thugs."

Shianni pulled one boot on with a wince. "Rav didn't want to get into the details, but he said he could tell by the damage to her body that whoever did it was trained. So, not common street thugs, and there were no guards in the area. Just the templars. Considering what some of the elves said, we think it was either a shem whose son had a disfigurement she couldn't fix, or… well I'm not supposed to give names. Valendrian said no names or rumors unless we're sure. But there was an elf whose child died from an accident and another whose wife died of an illness she couldn't cure. You know, it's weird, but sometimes when Solyn couldn't cure a patient, either they or their family would blame her. Not always, most were grateful she tried no matter what happened, but it was ugly when they got upset with her. I saw that with Rav once. The grandmother had consumption, and when she died, the father was screaming at him. Awful things. Rav didn't say anything back, not a word. Just walked away like he was carved out of stone. He stayed at my house that night where it was just the two of us and cried."

"Poor Rav," Nesiara said. Poor husband.

"It made Valendrian and Uncle nervous. That's when they forbid him to do anymore. I think they both know he still practices in secret, or at least Valendrian does. I think it helps remind everyone of what they lost and could lose from one elf's bad behavior."

"Here," Nesiara said. "I made this for my new father."

"Andraste's ass, Rav got lucky." Shianni shook her head in wonder as she examined the pipe. "Ready?"

"Let's go."


	6. Married Life – Imps and Weddings

On the bottom floor of the apartment building an old woman called out to Nesiara and Shianni. "Shianni. Come in for tea." Inside the humble one room two grey haired matrons with sharp eyes and wide grins sat together at a small table. 

Head lowered slightly as if in for a rebuke, Shianni led the way. "This is granny Drioni," she said, indicating a handsome, oval faced woman with sly a glint in her dark eyes, "and granny Eolas.” She gestured toward as woman who had the same dark eyes in a heart shaped face. "They're sisters. This is Nesiara." 

"Oh we know who you are," Eolas said. "Trean couldn't stop talking about the new elf." 

"And did you see that young buck prancing down the stairs?" Taking Nesiara firmly by the arm, Drioni led her to a chair. "Looked like the Maker's light was shining out of his ass, he did." 

"He was late for work, he was," Eolas said. "Never been late before." 

"Didn't take him long, but of course it wouldn't," Drioni added with a knowing grin. Nesiara blushed at the two dames' chuckles. 

"That's nothing against your character, dearie." Eolas busied herself at the little stove. "Just we know that boy. Even one of those Chantry virgins wouldn't stand a chance if he had a mind to it." 

"So much trouble that boy," Drioni said wistfully. 

"So much good he does," her sister replied and set two small cups in front of their guests with bowls of cream and sugar. "I take it then that you're happy with the match." 

Nesiara folded her hands in her lap. "I am." 

"Oh, if I was forty years younger," Drioni said with a positively wicked deep throated laugh. "That one would turn a brunette red. I'm surprised Shianni could even get you out of that room." 

Eolas poured the tea, refilling their cups in the process. "He's got a body on him, doesn't he. He doesn't know it, but my sister here is always tipping over around him just to get a touch. But then, considering how he flirts, maybe he does know it and lets her have her thrill." 

"Are you any different, Sister?" Drioni asked, already knowing the answer. 

"I'm much more subtle." 

Shianni put a hand over her mouth to hide her laughter. "You two are awful." 

Eolas fixed her gaze on Shianni. "One day my dear, you'll be just like us. Too many wrinkles in that pretty face and too much knowledge. Sometimes dearie, you have to laugh or you end up crying all your days." 

"True, true." Drioni's eyes sharpened on Shianni. "She's already got a bit of a mouth on her." 

"Not becoming in one so young," Eolas admonished. "Wait another thirty five or forty years, then you're not rude or crass. You're just a character, and everyone shakes their collective heads at what you say, but you'll know the truth of it." 

Drioni's eyes gleamed over her tea cup as she took Shianni's measure. "A child is a child still. You want more say but aren't willing yet to grow up." 

"Shianni," Eolas said quietly. "Do not be in such a hurry to grow too old. Knowledge is its own kind of power, just as innocence is. But don't wait too long either. Innocence doesn't last forever you know, and when it is gone, if you have developed nothing else, you will be alone in the world." 

"Um, yes, Granny." Mystified, Shianni smiled nervously at Nesiara. 

"And you, new elf," Eolas addressed Nesiara, "are learning what it is to be a woman." 

Drioni gave her a toothy grin. "You're still walking, so I think you might be able to keep up with that buck." 

Nesiara had to gulp the hot tea quickly or choke. Eolas slapped her sister's knee in reproach. "Now Dri, she's a new wife. Wait for it to settle a bit first." 

"So, new elf," Drioni said taking little notice of her sister. "What are your plans for today?" 

Just like gossips, it seemed every alienage had a few old cantankerous grannies around to make the children smile at their parents' discomfort. "Well, Shianni is going to take me to the Chantry…" 

"The Chantry," Drioni said. Both women took a keen interest at that. "Do tell." 

"My parents were able to escape a purge at Highever, and I wanted to light a candle and pray for their safe passage." 

Maternal affection gentled Eolas's smile, and she patted Nesiara's knee. "You're a good girl, you are. Pride of her parents this one. No wonder Rav had his chest puffed out." 

Drioni had a small smile of pure mischief on her face. "Could be that's why, but I think the lass has other charms as well." 

"Sister," Eolas admonished with her own grin. 

"Ah well," Drioni said without the least embarrassment. "Boy knows how to move his hips is all I'm saying, and I think this girl knows it." 

"She means dancing," Eolas whispered to Nesiara. 

"I mean exactly what I said. Oh, most young men think it's just a matter of wiggling it around a bit, then they flop over as if they've got the Maker's gift between their legs and go to sleep while their wives stare up at the ceiling and wait for them to learn better. Some of those idiots have a hard time finding the right hole and wonder why their wives don't get pregnant." Shianni choked on her tea, and Eolas had to slap her on the back a few times before the fit stopped. "But he knows his ins and outs, doesn't he, new wife." Nesiara could feel the blood rush to her face. 

"Now Sister, they're going to the Chantry. Not right to fill their heads with such things." 

"Better that then some of the Chants they harp on about," Drioni grumbled. 

"Anyway," Eolas continued. "So you're going to the Chantry. What else?" 

"Uh," Nesiara stumbled over her words as she tried to get her thoughts back in order. "I brought most of my equipment with me, but I need raw materials to make crafts. I didn't see much of the Market yesterday, so I thought I'd look for materials today." 

"Oh you should see what she can do," Shianni said excitedly. "The wedding gifts she gave to Rav and Uncle Cyrion are the most beautiful things I've ever seen in my life." 

"Ah," Eolas said, "then it's a good thing you've come by today." 

Drioni took Nesiara's hands and wrapped a small pouch in them. "A wedding gift. It's not much but you're welcome to it. Let's hope it gets you started on your future here." 

"Oh. Thank you," Nesiara said, "but I don't know if I can take this. It's not the official ceremony yet, and part would go to Rav…" Elder elves had little money to sustain them unless a younger relative was willing to care for them, and these two looked like they were on their own. They shouldn't accept any money from someone in such a bad position, but she shouldn't hurt their pride either. 

"Oh hush," Drioni said. As if reading her thoughts the woman added, "We make lace that a woman sells in the Market. It's enough that we can give this, and that boy has done so much good that goes unrewarded. My sister almost died of pneumonia last year, and if that happened, Maker forbid, I don't know what I'd do. Use it to make a good life for the both of you." 

"Go on, dearie," Eolas said. "Use it as an investment in your future."  
Nesiara kissed each of them on the cheeks and gave thanks. Outside she and Shianni began giggling uncontrollably. "Holy Maker, it's amazing what comes out of their mouths." 

"Please Maker, I don't want to get the Chantry giggles," Nesiara said. 

"Chantry giggles?" 

"You know when you're supposed to be serious, but then you start giggling and can't stop. Chantry giggles." 

"Do you go to the Chantry often?" Shianni asked, taking Nesiara's arm as they walked through the alienage. 

"Every week." 

"I've never been so much as inside their courtyard." 

"You're parents never took you?" Nesiara asked. "My parents closed up shop for two hours on Chantry Day so we could all go." 

Shianni shrugged. "My father died a long time ago. My mother works as a lady's handmaid. She travels a lot, and the family she works for lives somewhere in the Bannorn. I don't see her much." 

"I'm sorry about your father." Nesiara squeezed her arm. No wonder she was so invested in her cousins. 

"It was a long time ago. I didn't know the Chantry allowed elves." 

"Not as priestesses of course, but the service at Highever was quite welcoming." 

Shianni snorted. "Didn't think the shems would want us around unless we're cleaning up after them." 

She hadn’t paid much attention to it last night, but her husband had a similar attitude. "Humans aren't all that bad." 

"Ha! Don't say that around Soris, and really don't say that around Rav. Soris was orphaned because of the last purge. The Denerim Arl, the Kendells, would have gotten rid of us if they could. Urien thinks we're vermin. Their son is a bad sort too. If you ever hear them coming, hide fast." 

If the Kendells were anything like Howe, Nesiara supposed the elves’ attitudes made more sense. Shianni continued to fill her with gossip until Nesiara was sure that if she tipped her head, a few dozen names would slip out her ear. 

Nesiara walked through the Market for the second time in as many days, but this time her fears were settled, so she could enjoy it with her new cousin. Highever had a few Orlesians merchants, but it was nothing like the bustle and diversity she found here. She heard merchants shouting for customers or bargaining with well-practiced phrases. All around her, the city was filled with foreign accents she didn't recognize. There were sharp and brutal tongues, fluid and languid voices that spoke with a love of vowels, unctuous and sibilant tones, and darker cadences that drew out words as if they were unveiling secrets. 

Their beasts were strange as well. A large golden cat with golden eyes watched with anger underlying the humiliation of its caged state. The large, black lined red spots that covered its side looked like clouds hovering in a red sunset. As its steady gaze tracked her, it licked its lips, looking as sleek and sexy as an assassin. At the next stall, she saw brightly colored birds of all sizes. Some, as long as her arm with intelligent grey eyes and plumage in primary colors, sat next to tiny bright blue, green, and striped birdies that huddled together like rows of kernels on a corn cob. Plain brown birds with enchanting, bell like songs fluttered in wooden cages. One dwarf was selling what looked like naked rabbits the size of dogs, but they twitched their whiskers and squeaked like mice. 

There was even a section for horses. The two women went to the stables where nobles talked and traded the great animals. Centered in the stage was a black mare with a shimmering coat and such delicacy of form Nesiara didn't have to know anything about horses to know she was a prized animal. "One of the Antivan Iburri's line crossed with a Tevinter bloodmare," the trader said to the two nobles examining the animal. "She's a rare one she is. Smart and fast. Won't find her like here, ser, oh no." 

The dark haired noble said to his friend, "What do you say? A mare like that and you'd never lose a racing tourney. Put that brat of Bann Sigard's in his place." 

The fair noble had his back to the watching elves. He was thick with muscle and had a way of drawing the eye as some nobles or generals did, a man completely used to people obeying him. "She's pretty enough, but I want to see how she rides." 

Shianni clutched Nesiara's arm. "We've got to go," she whispered. 

"What is it?" 

"Shh! Oh Maker, he saw us. Come on," Shianni started running, and Nesiara had no choice but to follow. They hurried through the maze of stalls with the more common livestock: sheep, goats, rabbits, and foul. Geese squawked at her as humans yelled and bartered. 

"Shianni! Tell me what's going on." Nesiara stopped, forcing the other woman to as well. 

Shianni looked around the mill of humans then jumped to see over their shoulders. "No. If he followed we'd hear it." She took Nesiara's arm again and leaned close. "I was telling you about the Kendells? That blonde one is the son. There are a lot of rumors that he has a thing for elven women. Please Ness, if you ever leave the alienage on your own, watch out for him. Only exiles work for the Kendells." 

If nothing else convinced her, that last part did. "I'll be careful." She shook Shianni's arm. "Come on. He's gone. Let's enjoy ourselves." 

Past the livestock with the strong scent of manure were the leather goods with rich fragrances, then stalls with fabrics and ornate carpets for sale. Nesiara took a moment to admire one of the carpets made of fine wool and silk. One carpet could take a woman two years to weave if it was done correctly. Too much weaving a day would cause the weaver to lose her sight. "Lace, elven made lace," a woman called, showing off a cloth of gracefully woven floral patterns. If these were what Drioni and Eolas made, the two women were artists. 

They passed a beautiful Orlesians woman selling imported oils and perfumes in small crystal vials. "Why are perfumes always Orlesians?" Shianni asked. 

"My aunt said it's because they don't bathe." 

A scrawny dog was snuffling about for scraps at the fringes where he would not be chased off, and children played five stones behind the last of the stalls. As the two women passed, the children goggled at them. "Look at their eyes," one whispered. 

"Father says they're dirty." 

The little girl, a tomboy if her dirty trousers were any indication, said, "I think they're pretty." The one who said they were dirty nodded in agreement. 

"Here we are," Shianni said when they arrived at the stone Chantry. The nearby buildings looked flimsy in comparison to the tall, arched structure. Time and weather aged the buildings, and to Nesiara's eyes, revealed their true faces, just as age did with the faces of elves and humans. Age brought the lines of laughter or troubles, gave once smooth youth distinction, and showed the true life one had lived. A fine Chantry like this could take generations to build, each imposing a different style, a different will on the structure, and in its solidity stood the people's collective faith. 

Near the courtyard entrance were the criers and chanters in heavy red and gold robes to represent the fire that burned the prophetess Andraste, a tragedy for all people but one which freed her soul to go to the Maker. An older woman with large, low hanging breasts chanted in a powerful voice, "The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil, And grew jealous of the life. They could not feel, could not touch. In blackest envy were the demons born." 

Templars milled around the courtyard speaking in low tones. In their battle scared armor was etched the holy sword of mercy, forever on fire. From the waist down they wore robes of regal purple with gold trim, colors as noble as their calling. One templar was kneeling in front of a statue of Andraste, his sword before him as he prayed to her white, marble figure. 

Nesiara had always felt protected when she was near the Chantry. The templars were as good if not better than guards because they were devoted to a cause for spiritual reasons rather than monetary. It was a hard life to keep apostates in check, and templars sacrificed the pleasures of this life to fill a noble cause and do the Maker's will. Could men like the one in fervent prayer really cut down an innocent healer on suspicion? Rav didn't like the Chantry, so it was easy for him to blame them when there was little evidence. 

On the other side of the heavy oaken doors was the hushed reverence Nesiara had found boring as a child eager to be on to making her clumsy child's crafts. As she grew older she found the peace of the Chantry to be filled with solace and quiet expectation. The way she felt with her tools before her and imagination set was how the Chantry always felt. It was the moment of readiness when everything was still and full of potential. 

The harsh sun was dimmed here, the light turned into patterns of color by the stained glass windows set high. Nesiara breathed a sigh of calm before going to one of the side alcoves. Shianni followed at a polite distance and took in the sights of the building. Nesiara retrieved one of the small candles kept for prayer and held the unlit candle to her chest as she bent her head to infuse her prayer for her family. This was the preparation that would purify her intention. Next she lit the candle from the single flame at the head of the alter, rested hers among the dozen other lit flames, and knelt to pray. 

She whispered, "Thank you Maker for blessing me with a home when I was lost. Blessings to the man whose bed I share and who shares himself with me. Thank you for bestowing these fortunes on me. Please Maker guide my family's path. Give them the strength and courage to find their way as I found mine. Soothe them of their troubles and suffering. 'For those who are humble and in need, the Maker's Light will show the way. Let there remain no darkness, for darkness does not exist in the Maker's Light. May those who find themselves wandering in fear, the weakest of your children, be protected by your Light.' May your gaze show the way. Amen." 

Nesiara stood and went to Shianni who looked more like a robin that had accidentally flown in and didn't know what to make of the place or how to get out. "So… is that it?" 

"I need to register for my marriage permit." 

"Marriage permit," Shianni said too loudly. She began a little more quietly after receiving a dirty look from an initiate tending the alter nearby. "Doesn't a mother just say a few words or something? What do you need a permit for?" 

"The Chantry keeps a record of marriages," Nesiara said, wondering at her companion's confusion. "That's the difference between a handfasting and an official marriage." 

"Mother Boann shows up on the aunnums to do it. We wait around until she's done then the fun happens." 

"So… the couple doesn't come here for the ceremony?" Elves and the poor did not get anything grand like the wealthier humans, but they did have to show up at least. 

"Not as long as I've seen them."   
"We still need permits. That's what makes it legal." 

Shianni shrugged, not really caring. "Okay. How long will that take?" 

Nesiara left to find a clerk who would be able to explain how their system worked. Denerim was just different enough to keep her from feeling settled, even in a Chantry. 

~o~O~o~

At noon on the First Day Annum, Mother Boann officiated three weddings. All the elves who could take the day off joined the rest of the community gathered under the vhenadahl. The Mother was a plain woman, and while Raviathan did not like humans, he could tolerate her. If nothing else, her willingness to preside over the weddings here kept him away from the Chantry and those bloody templars. 

Raviathan saw the ceremony with new eyes. It had been fun before with all the celebration, but now he saw the joining of two lives and began to understand the hope adults had when they witnessed their children growing and continuing. He was an only child, and as such, was the only bridge for another generation for his family. From his mother's family, his uncle and aunt had both died without children. Their line was for him to carry. He tightened his arm around Nesiara's waist, and she leaned into him. In three months it'll be our turn. 

Like many of the other elves, Raviathan shifted in irritation when the Mother started a new line of the Chant. Maker but shems did love their ceremonies and kept looking for new and inventive ways to make them more boring. Nesiara scowled at him, so he stood up straighter. A boy his age smirked at him, but Raviathan honestly couldn't care less. His wife was gorgeous and talented, and that smirking idiot would be lucky to get a wife half as wonderful. 

"Oh Maker, not another verse," a man groaned quietly behind him. 

"Get on with it," another said just as quietly and folded his arms. 

Raviathan could feel his eyes start to glaze over, so instead he moved to hold Nesiara from behind and bury his face in her honeyed hair. He closed his eyes and forgot the world around him. Every morning when he woke to find her softness in his arms, he felt his heart open. Every day the feelings of loss and shame slowly melted away. He would make himself worthy of her. He was going to have integrity and be who he always wanted to be. 

Loud applause woke him from his reverie. "Thank the Maker," the man behind him cheered. 

Mother Boann smiled broadly at the crowd and descended with Valendrian who would lead her out. "I'm going to visit with her," Nesiara said. 

"Okay, sweet Ness." He kissed her and picked up his fiddle and lute. Once the shem was far enough away, Raviathan went to the stage to congratulate the couples. He kissed Salia on the cheek and gave Redden a hug. He and Salia were more comfortable with each other now that Nesiara was in his life. It was like that for a lot of his former lovers who were married and had remained at the alienage. Time would ease the rest. In a few years he was finally going to be rid of all the guilty claws of his past. 

Raviathan wanted to start off the celebrations with fast and jovial music to channel the crowd's frustration. Get them to dance some of that energy out, and in the evening he would play ballads on his lute to a more receptive audience. There were a few other elves who rotated with him so the music would be constant for their day of celebration. 

"One, two, three, four," Raviathan yelled out, stomping his foot with each word. It gave everyone the time of the fast and fiery jig that would be the first song of many he would play. There were shouts and cheers as the elves formed groups or pairs. Next to him on the stage the newlyweds paired with their mates to spin around in swift circles. This is what weddings were supposed to be. 

At a safe distance from the vhenadahl, other elves started cooking in small, careful fires with buckets of water nearby. Garlic flatbread was heated on stones to be used like edible plates. Roasting meats and sausages, peppers, onions, garlic and spices sizzled and permeated the air. Pots of stew and chili would be sold for a few coppers with crusty bread while other elves made hot cider and wine mulled with honey and spices. 

There were some hard core drunks who would be soused within an hour, but most of the heavy drinking would be after sunset when the children were back home. With a few exceptions, the whole alienage would be awake until late in the night as they celebrated the weddings and start of a new year. Raviathan winked at his fair beauty when she returned to watch him. 

~o~O~o~

When dusk started to settle, candles in dyed or clear glass jars were strung between apartments and set around the stage to light up the alienage as the party continued. Protesting children were carried away now that more alcohol would be served. Nesiara massaged Raviathan's hands during his break and marveled not only at their fineness but the incredible talent he had. One of the vendors gave him spiced ground pork and vegetables in a garlic bread wrap, which he wolfed down quickly. "I'm sorry we can't dance." 

"Don't be," Nesiara said with a smile. "I had no idea the Denerim elves danced this much." 

"What do you do in Highever to celebrate?" 

"Um," Nesiara said looking around. "There's food and drink of course. And storytelling. Mostly we set up booths to sell things. There's only one musician, so it's more about games and talking." 

"Games?" Raviathan asked in interest. 

"Like three legged races. The children paint stones then hide them around the alienage. Whoever finds the most gets a treat. There are also prizes for the prettiest stone, the funniest, or the ugliest." She leaned up and planted a light kiss. "I liked the stories you told the children." 

He murmured deep in his throat and kissed her with no intention of making it short. 

"Rav!" one of the singers called. "Stop kissing your wife and get up here." 

There were catcalls which turned more enthusiastic when he did just the opposite of stopping. Nesiara could feel the heat of a blush warm her cheeks and neck. 

"Come on, lover boy," Taedor said and forcibly pulled Raviathan back up on stage. There was some good natured-bantering between the musicians as they readied for the next set. 

Chilled by the wind, Nesiara went to the cider vendor and paid a bit for a mug. She sipped it and enjoyed the heat generated by his little fire. The music started again, and Nesiara watched her husband with a wistful smile. He and another elf were playing on the lute while a third accompanied them with a flute and another sang. 

"So. You're the new elf." 

Nesiara turned to look at the vendor. He was middle aged with dark reddish brown eyes that picked up the firelight like rubies. She was starting to recognize faces, but many names still alluded her. "Yes. I'm Nesiara." 

"I know who you are." He wasn't looking at her; his ruby eyes focused on the swirling cider. 

"I'm… sorry?" What could she have done to offend him? 

The vender's lips pursed. "Was your family so desperate for a dowry?" 

"What?" She was too shocked to say more. 

His eyes were hard when he finally looked at her. "Surely you must know about him by now at least. Can't imagine why you're still here unless your parents can't return the money. Or won't return it." 

Nesiara took a step back, shocked that a strange elf would talk to her so. Who was this man? An older woman with beautiful dark eyes stepped up then. She watched the vendor steadily, a deceptive calm in her intense, dark eyes. 

He ignored her at first then started to shift as she continued to stare at him. His eyes flicked to her then back to the dancing elves. "What if it were your daughter?" he accused.

"So that gives you right to be rude to a new elf who has never wronged you?"

He glared at one then the other. "He should have been exiled." 

"Perhaps," she said folding her arms, her gaze still pressing him. "And perhaps Valendrian was thinking about more than your daughter. The rest of us have rights too." 

An ugly grimace pulled the lines in his face. "You'd feel different it was your own." 

"Maybe," she said with icy calm, "you'd feel different if it had been your nephew with a broken leg and no one else to fix it. Or your little cousin with scarlet fever. Or," and her eyes turned as hard as sparking flint, "your brother who nearly died because of an accident at work, for which a sixteen year old boy had to perform surgery all alone." 

"Enough." The man stirred the cider and averted his gaze. "I get your point, but that doesn't make it right. Just cause he's done some good don't erase the bad." 

The woman leaned forward and said quietly, "You have issues? Talk to Valendrian, but stop picking on young girls." She took Nesiara by the arm and led her away. "Don't pay attention to him. Once his daughter is married, he'll have no more grievances." 

It was the first time anyone here had actually confronted her. The uncomfortable expectation of such a talk had been growing, and now that it had happened, disappointment weighed on her. "I feel like everyone here is watching me. It isn't my imagination, is it." 

The woman put an arm around her shoulder. "No, my dear. But it isn't something you should take seriously either. I'm Miram." 

She would have introduced herself, but there was no need. "What happened to your brother?" 

Miram steered the two of them to a bench to watch the party continue. "He was working on repairs for an estate. They were lifting stone blocks to the second floor when a rope snapped and the block hit him in the stomach. He was going to stay and finish, said the pain wasn't too bad, but friends helped him back home when they saw his stomach start to swell. His heart was going too fast, and he was getting hot to the touch. Rav said it was… oh what was it? A per-fort-ed vis-something? Anyway, he had to operate to clean out my brother's body. It would have been fatal if my brother stayed an hour more. Rav had to give him an elfroot mixture for weeks before he was out of danger." Miram patted Nesiara's arm. "You're going to hear some less than flattering things, but don't let it trouble you. They're judging him for doing things when he was too young to know better, not for what he's done in the last years." 

"Is your brother alright now?" She would have felt differently if her husband hadn't been up front with her. As it was, she trusted him. 

"Right as he's ever been. I tell you that boy worked a miracle. Oh, if only the alienage could always look like this." The only thing that matched the bright candles for light were the cooking fires and multitude of elven eyes. As the elves danced into the night, their eyes flashed and winked in jewel bright colors of lavender and orchid, all shades of sky to sea blue, emerald and the yellow green of new leaves. The underside of the vhenadahl was lit, its silver and green leaves fluttering in the breeze, its limbs stretched overhead as a protective mother to shelter her children. Ornaments dangled from the tree's limbs like bracelets on a lady, her dress made of the ceremonial paint along her trunk, green and red from Feastday to First Day. 

Miram ran her fingers down Nesiara's hair. "Aside from that fool, how have you been settling in?" 

Nesiara smiled and leaned into Miram. The cantankerous grannies Drioni and Eolas were dancing two of the three grooms to exhaustion. Good for them. "I love my new family." 

"I have a son. It nearly broke my heart to see him go two years ago." 

"Where is he?" 

"Dragon's Peak. I get letters, but it's not close to the same. My husband died many years ago, and all I had to remember him was our son. I wished I could have hugged him one last time, but parents can't do that." 

"What do you mean?" 

"It helps if your child is a little insecure when they leave. It helps them bond with their new family and seek the comfort of their new spouse." Nesiara sat up straight, her astonishment matched by Miram's sad, too knowing gaze. "It's one of the hardest things for a parent to do, but we do it because we love you and want you to have the best life." 

Nesiara blinked her eyes rapidly as colors started to swim, and Miram put an arm around her. "I felt the same way twenty years ago. I wouldn't have said anything just yet, but it looks like you're happy here." 

The music switched to a slower tempo, and the dancers paired off or took a break to eat. "Thank you." Nesiara wanted to say more, but all she could think of was her parents and little brother having to start their lives over in a new alienage. The days of her childhood had been joyous ones. How could she forget all the long, companionable days of working with her mother? How could she let the events of the last few weeks overshadow a lifetime of care? Miram handed her a handkerchief to wipe her tears. 

"Ness?" She looked up and saw her husband watching her worriedly. He glanced at Miram and shuffled awkwardly before looking back at her. "What's wrong?" 

She stood and hugged her husband, and his arms squeezed her tight. "Sweet Ness?" 

"I'm fine," Nesiara said. "Just thinking about my family." 

Before she left, Miram squeezed his shoulder, her own dark eyes as deep as a well. "You two should dance." 

"Come on," Nesiara said and led him under the vhenadahl where they had one dance before he had to resume his duties.


	7. Married Life – Gratitude and Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: revised 5/7/14

When Nesiara returned home with the fabric she had bought for their wedding clothes, she found her husband at the table folding a section of parchment. The ink and quill had already been stored away. "What's this?" she asked, setting the canvas bag on the cabinet shelf.

"I'm writing a prayer."

Curious, she looked over his shoulder, watching his hands bend the paper into intricate folds. "Writing a prayer? I thought you didn't like the Chantry."

"I don't. It's not a prayer for them. Shoo," he said hunching his shoulder over his work. She laughed.

She glanced over and noticed the pattern he was making matched the ones she had seen hung from the vhenadahl. She had thought the decorations odd as she'd passed the tree the day before, thinking to herself that they must have prettier things to hang there. Yet another reminder that she still had a lot to learn about this alienage. Knowing his weakness, she gently lifted the hair off his neck and started to glide her lips along his skin. Though he tried to hide his reaction, his fingers turned clumsy. When she got to his ear, gliding her lips as light as a breath along the shell, he dropped the folded paper. "But I want to know," she whispered.

"No," Raviathan said softly, and she knew she had him. If she over did it, he'd take her to their bed and there would be no finding out, so instead of nibbling his ear, she lightly ran her nose up the long outer curve. He trembled, his soft spoken voice growing quieter, "It's considered bad luck."

It was enough that he would give in, so she sat next to him. "Bad luck? What sort of prayer is this?"

Raviathan bit his lips. "It's for the vhenadahl. When there's something we're grateful for, we write a prayer and hang it on the tree. It's… " he fumbled for a good way to describe the practice. "It's like opening your heart to the world, to the good things out there."

"To the Maker?"

He nibbled his lip as he made another two folds. "I suppose. I know some people do, like lighting a candle at the Chantry. But the Chantry candle is more for good wishes for loved ones or hopes. I guess you could make it to whoever you want."

Nesiara grinned a flirtatious smile to get him to open up a bit more. "What about you?"

The look she got in return, a reluctant but impish smile, told her he knew exactly what she was doing but was enjoying it anyway. "I… I guess the Maker might be in there. I sort of make mine to the world at large and whatever good spirits might be listening. It isn't to anything in particular. I think the act is more important than who it's to. It's valuable to recognize the good things in your life."

"Like what?"

"What do people write in their prayers?" She nodded. "Oh, different things obviously. The birth of a child, if you've been prosperous, or a sick relative gets better. It can be for something simple, like you hear a bit of music or see a sunset and it reminds you of how beautiful the world can be. It's meant for anything that makes you realize your life is worthy, the things that touch your heart, give you inspiration and lift you up. You know those moments? Sort of like when you step back and stop thinking about yourself and you just exist in a good moment, and for that time, there's nothing but happiness. And the prayer is to give thanks that, to be grateful for the gifts you receive in life."

"So why is it bad luck?"

"It's not. Well, the prayer itself isn't," Raviathan amended. He looked at her pensively then shook his head. "How you can stand to be without a vhenadahl at Highever I'll never understand."

Nesiara cocked her head at him, but she was beginning to get a sense of the tree's place here. At first she'd thought it little more than a pretty thing, all decorated and cared for, a permanent version of the solstice tree that humans kept in their homes during the month of Haring. Now, she was starting to realize that although the elves here didn't see it, they had a tendency to center their lives around that tree. It was very subtle, and Nesiara was going by intuition and impressions, but the vhenadahl was more than just a focal point in the alienage. 

Maybe she was imagining it, too much of her artist's eye coming out as her mother would say, but she got feeling that the arrangement of the alienage interior made a strange, organic sense. The buildings weren't haphazardly constructed as she had always thought when she was in Highever. The old buildings in Highever resembled those here in Denerim, but the randomness of the new additions built at Highever during her lifetime gave the whole place a different feel. At this alienage there was an echo of the tree in the placement of homes, the way they grew out in branches and had roots. At first it seemed chaotic, but as it became more familiar, it started to make an intuitive sort of pattern. "Will you show me?"

Raviathan sighed, and his shoulders hunched. "You're not suppose to see it. That's the bad luck part. A prayer needs to be made from your heart. It has to be pure. If another person sees it, it's like you're showing off. Then you have people making prayers because they want something, or to show they're sorry rather than saying it, or to prove something. The last is really bad. You know how humans try to show off how pious they are by building bigger Chantries or giving more expensive things to the fire as if it was really their sacrifice to Andraste? Plus all that wealth was made from someone else's labor and is wasted in a fire. They do it to show off to others, how much money they have, how 'noble' they are. They don't do it because they really believe. Showing a prayer taints it and takes away its honesty."

"Please? I want to know how to do it." He pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Please, Rav? What you wrote, and the reason you wrote it won't change. I want to make a prayer for…"

"Don't," he said quickly. "Don't tell me. Just write it down, and I'll show you how to fold it."

"Alright," Nesiara said a little taken aback. So this was the serious stuff. He kissed her temple and got the writing material. "Can it be a wish?"

"No," he said. "Wishes are what you want. These prayers are for what you receive. Sometimes gifts come in unexpected ways. If you're full of expectations, then you're less likely to see a gift when you receive it." Raviathan bit his lips looking at her. She was struck again by how much emotion could be contained in his large eyes, and it made her feel still and wondering. 

He said hesitantly, "Maybe this isn't the best example. In fact it's probably a really horrible example, but it's what came to mind. I know a woman. She really loved being a mother, especially when her child was young. Loved every minute of it, but she was only able to have the one daughter. She was always a little sad about that, and she often talked about how she wished she could have those years over again. If the circumstances were different, she might have helped with the orphanage. She always regretted having to leave for work every day, not spending more time with her daughter, especially after her daughter left to be married. She would never get that time back.

"One day she received word that her daughter had died of pneumonia. She was heartbroken. Her one little girl was gone." Raviathan blinked rapidly, his eyes bright in the dark room. "She's grieving, and she'll always grieve for her daughter. There isn't anything that can replace that person in her heart. In the letter, her son in law asked her to come to his alienage. You see, he has two children now, one just a few months old. There isn't any way for him to care for the children, not when he has to work.

"It's a tragedy, and there's no erasing that. But she would never have seen her grandchildren otherwise, only heard about them in letters. She'd have to work, and the only time she would be able to visit would be when she's too old to make the journey. Now she's going to be there with them, watch them grow. She won't have to trade off with an aunt because she has to work. In fact, she's going to be the one other mothers look to when they need help or advice. She's going to be respected in the alienage, and she's going to be doing something a hundred times more satisfying than cleaning a bann's chamber pot.

"She could spend her life wishing for the time back with her daughter, but that's never going to happen. Whatever life she wished for her daughter, she had no control over. She can let this make her bitter, or she can spend the rest of her days in sorrow. I'm not saying she doesn't have the right to grieve. Not at all. But all those wishes… It's normal to want things. We all do that. But you don't shouldn't open your heart to things you want. It's just a way to make yourself bitter, and it can blind you to what you receive. That's why these prayers are always in gratitude, because it makes your heart open to the joy in the world." Raviathan bit his lips and looked down at his hands. "Does… does that make sense?"

Nesiara took a long, slow breath to consider. While she thought, Raviathan went back to folding the paper. It was a rather pretty and intricate sort of braid. The paper was very thin and delicate with his pen scratchings making visible patterns through the folded surface. She could make out a few letters but little else. What was he giving thanks for? The paper was thin enough that it would dissolve in rain, which was probably intentional. The tree wouldn't get cluttered and the prayers would dissolve instead of falling to the muddy ground. "Okay. I know what I want to write."

He smiled up at her and finished the series of folds so he could put it down without losing his work. He placed the ink, quill, and a tattered old turkey feather in front of her then very carefully cut off a section of the paper with a knife. "It's thin, so be careful as you write. Once you're done, give it a minute to dry, then fold it in half with the writing on the inside, then fold again. Make sure you remember what you wrote so you can say it at the vhenadahl."

"Is there a particular way I should phrase this?" Nesiara asked touching the paper to get a feel for how it would take the ink.

"These are private, so I don't know how others would phrase it. I usually just start with 'Thank you for…' then say how this has touched you or why it's special." Getting the sense that he was hiding something, she gave him a look. He squirmed under her gaze then said in an embarrassed undertone, "Gratitude fills my heart for the gifts in this world. Thank you for blessing me with…"

Why did he try to hide this more poetic side of himself? Still, it was nice to know it was there, and that with a little prodding he was willing to share it with her. She made her letters small so she could fill the paper.

Gratitude fills my heart for the gifts in this world. Thank you for blessing me with such an amazing husband. I love his kindness and sensitivity. I love how he is sweet and thoughtful. Thank you for making him so handsome and for the warmth that fills my chest whenever I see him. Thank you for taking away my fears and giving me this gift in its place.

Nesiara blew on the paper gently to speed the drying process. She folded it as he had instructed just as he was finishing his own. Seeing she was finished, he smiled at her, and she felt the familiar tingle that arose whenever he gave her that smile. He got up to lean over behind her for the folding demonstration. "The paper is this wide, so remember to make all your folds that wide." As he demonstrated, Nesiara realized that the pattern was more like a series of knots rather than folds. After seeing three knots, she made the fourth under his gaze, then a fifth. "You've got it."

His hands rested on her shoulders, his fingers slipping under the top of her dress as he watched her fold. He didn't do more than that, but as she worked, Nesiara kept wanting him to either reach further down and play with her breasts or start slowly undoing the buttons that held her dress up. Every once in a while he would shift. They were tiny movements, but it was incredibly distracting when she wanted him to do other things. His hands left when she was two thirds of the way done. "The fold is different here. When you hang the paper up, it has to fold inside like this," he said demonstrating. "That way you can loop it around a branch."

"Makes sense."

"Then the rest is the same kind of folds you've been doing."

"Got it." Then, instead of his hands with their tender invasion, his fingertips caressed her bare shoulders. Sometimes she felt impossibly lustful around him. She wanted him to touch her and undress her, right there in the main room. How could he respect a wife like that? But then he would look at her with hunger, like he never seemed to have enough. She continued to work under his supervision, and she wondered why this lighter touch seemed worse than when his fingertips had gone under her dress. The thick, many layered cloth of her dress helped hide the aroused points of her breasts but chaffed her too. 

"Okay," said Raviathan. "Now the final fold." His breath had been right next to her ear while he was touching her. A tiny outrage sparked in Nesiara’s chest. No wonder his touch seemed worse. He had been teasing her, and she hadn’t even known why she was so affected. 

His hands wrapped around hers to demonstrate the last knot that served to keep the paper from unraveling. His lips weren't touching her ear, but she could feel the lightness of his breath. Instead of fantasizing about what she wanted him to do, Nesiara took perverse pleasure in the frustration he was causing. "There. If you're ready, we can go hang them up."

Raviathan left to look over the fabric she had gotten. Nesiara examined at the pretty little folded prayer she had made. "So. What was yours?"

"I told you. It's bad luck to say."

Nesiara got up to tease it out of him but stopped when she caught the hard little grin he was trying to hide. “You knew exactly what you were doing to me," she accused putting her hands on her hips.

Raviathan looked at her out of the corner of his eye, mischief written all over his dark features. "You little tart. Did you think I was going to let you get away with all that teasing?"

"Tart am I? Cad."

He couldn't suppress his smile anymore, and she swatted him on the shoulder. It only made him laugh outright, and he grabbed her around the waist and spun. She ended up pressed against him, his lips parting hers. His eyes softened as he gazed at her. "We still have a couple hours before sunset."

"Do we now? But I need to measure for your clothes. Indeed, dear husband. You’ll have to be patient while I take all sorts of measurements."

He kissed her again, his hands slowly roaming down her back and over her rump. "I can't wait for summer when you have to wear less clothing."

She tried to wiggle away in mock offense, but his arms were like iron around her. "How dare you call me a tart. You brute. Unhand me. I should run off to the Dalish."

She had only managed to get turned around, and when he pressed her close, she could feel him hard through their clothes. "I'll hunt you down, wife," he said low next to her ear.

At the sound of his voice, she melted. She grabbed the chair top for support, and her bottom pressed against his pelvis. She could feel him there, hard and pressing her dress into her. He let out a growl then her skirts were up. The cool air hit her bare legs, and he had a hand inside her small clothes, pulling them down. Here? Oh no, no, no. It was wrong. This was the family place. How would she ever be able to sit at the table again without blushing? Dinner tonight was going to be so awkward.

She felt his thighs slide along the back of her legs and was surprised by the deep wanting moan that came from her own throat. One of his hands was working with clumsy fury at her dress buttons, and she thought he'd rip them off the way he pulled and struggled. It was wrong to do this here. What if someone came in? She hadn't locked the door, and his cousins tended to just walk in without knocking. What if his father came home early? His length brushed over her buttocks, and her hips thrust back in newly awakened instinct.

The top of her dress was undone and fell, the buttons making a small tick as they hit the chair. He pulled her shift down roughly and squeezed her breast. A strangled cry escaped him as his palm roamed against her stiff nipple. "Ness," he whispered and pressed hard against her. She felt his bare thighs, his fine skin sliding against her own, and his pants crumpled about his knees. If someone came in, how would they ever explain this?

Frustrated, he pulled back her hip, his hand keeping her chest upright so her back arched. She wondered at the picture she presented, her body contorted, presenting her sex as eagerly as a demon of lust. His hands cupped her buttock, squeezed, then delved between her legs. He had touched her so many times since that first night together, enough that she knew the pleasure his fingers could bring, but each time she felt terribly shy. She liked the shyness though. A part of her reveled when he took over like this, like he couldn’t stop himself. She only had to say one word, and he would stop. They both knew that, so she was safe to play. She could be the chaste virgin or the nymph, that she was desired in all her incarnations. Now, she was his uncontrollable desire. She didn’t have to be anything, only exist, to feel her husband’s need, a force as primal as the need for water or sleep. 

His fingers reached in, their very foreignness, of another person touching her, raised her awareness of her own sex. She felt her own wetness through him, her heat by the cool of his fingers, the sensitivity of her skin by the touch of his. “Ness.” 

Belonging overwhelmed her. I am his. I am his desire, his need. She pressed back to feel his fingers slide along the folds of her sex. His mouth was open on her ear. Without looking, she knew the expression on his face. Eyes heavy lidded, mouth open in dazed pleasure, mind nearly lost, as beautiful as a saint given deliverance, and all because of her. His lips moved along her ear, searching up for the point. She had to arch further so he could reach her ear, which further opened her body to him. His fingers roamed inside her once more before retreating. Then she felt his own sex pressing into her. 

With one breast in his firm grip, his other hand held her high on her bare hip to keep her dress up, he joined their bodies. A warmth spread through her, and his fingers reached the mound of her sex. Just a little more. His other hand caressed and teased her taut nipple, sometimes scratching lightly, playing with her in the most maddening way. When his fingers entered between her legs, they did the same. Light little caresses that tightened her whole body. His breath was heavy against the back of her neck, and when she tightened slightly around his fingers and pushed back into him, he groaned with a deep ache. His lips caressed her bare neck.

So sweet, she thought. He's so incredibly sweet. She moved, tightening as she pulled him out, opening to take him in. She wanted to spread her legs apart more, but it felt like her small clothes had gotten hooked around her boots. She tried to wiggle them off a bit, but after the first fumbling attempts decided that she wasn't willing to stop just for that. Instead she arched her back and squeezed her legs together. Raviathan groaned, "Oh sweet bloody Maker's tits." She almost laughed, but he seized her by the shoulder and started pumping quickly. Her breasts bounced, their small shifting weight making her more aware of them. She was a woman, and all the things that marked women when she was a child were now hers: their curved bodies with hips and breasts, their hidden knowledge. The secrets of women were hers to know.

Her climax came in a burst of pressure that pulled her in heavy waves. She dropped over the chair, tight and weak, her trembling legs wanting to buckle. Raviathan held her up, the wet from her sex on his fingers and now on her hip. She looked up and saw their prayers on the table, curled from the knot work. Thank you, Maker. Her husband pressed against her back, his arms folding around her. He nuzzled the back of her neck, kissing her lightly. Thank you, Maker.

He stood back, leaving the intimacy of her body. Her skirts slid back down, feeling rough after knowing his smooth skin. He kissed the back of her neck, his lips sliding along her shoulder, and held her, a hand cupping her breast as he did in sleep. It was tender and caring, and she was struck by how protected she felt in his presence. Nesiara took his hand and kissed his fingers. "Cad," she whispered.

"Tart," he said hugging her from behind. "Don't you dare run off to find the Dalish."

She wrapped her arms around his. "Not without you."

"Deal." She started to leave but then fell when her legs caught.

"Ness!" Raviathan's arms were there to get her righted. She moved awkwardly trying to get her balance with her legs impaired, grabbing the chair which scraped hard against the floor. Raviathan got her balanced, but then took a step only to find his pants around his knees. With a surprised "ahh!" he fell on his butt. They looked at each other for a moment then started laughing. Nesiara slowly went to her knees then lay over his chest. Raviathan smiled at her, his large eyes twinkling. He asked, "Are you alright?"

"Sure. My small clothes got caught around my boots. What about you?"

He laughed putting one arm up to cushion his head and another around her waist. "Extremely happy, my wife."

"I like that better than tart."

"But you're such a good tart," he said laughing. "Sweet and yummy. This summer I'll make you strawberry and custard tarts, and you'll never complain again."

Her face puckered at him, but she was laughing. "I like my other nickname better."

"My sweet Ness it is then.”

She started to do up the top of her dress, but he rolled her on her back, pining her hand. His mouth doing wonderful things to her breast that made her writhe. “You have the most gorgeous body, my sweet Ness.” 

“I can’t believe we just did that here.” She started laughing under his continued attention. “There’s no end to you, Rav. Let me get dressed.” 

“Why should I? You’re a vision.” 

She couldn’t get enough of his hungry gaze or the power she felt from it. She struggled halfheartedly, more wanting to feel his desire than wanting to cover up. He didn’t let her, and another bout of fondling left her pliant in his arms. 

“You know, I haven't been on the floor since I turned twelve. I would sit over there and listen to my mother's stories," Raviathan said gesturing.

"What kind of stories?"

"Some about Tevinter. More about different fables. Like how the stars got their names or tricksters. Some were about my family, but those were rare. Most died in the escape, and it made her sad to talk about them," Raviathan said as he absently caressed her hair. "I have one that's my favorite. I think it was my mother's favorite too."

"I want to hear it."

He smiled at her, gentle and sweet in a way that made her forget everything else existed except the two of them. "Well, dark skin is common in Tevinter. That's why Alarith is dark too."

"Did he come here with your family?"

"No. He's from further south than my family. Almost the same story too. His family were escaped slaves, and most died on the way. He came to Denerim when he was five, and he says he was rescued by the Dalish."

"Do you think that's true?" Nesiara asked.

"Why not? My mother had a story about the Dalish when she was escaping. That's another good one, but for later. Usually dark skin and brown eyes tend to go together. As far as I can tell, it seems dark humans almost always have brown eyes and dark hair unless it's gone grey from age. Our eyes though," he said batting his eyelashes at her, "are special. My family doesn't come from just any slaves. The house that owned my mother had been breeding a line of elves for many, many generations to create the perfect bard."

"So your mother's family were entertainers?"

"Bards are more than that. She had to be beautiful for one, and there was no one that was more beautiful than her. I'm not just saying that because she was my mother. All children think their mothers are beautiful, but she was someone extraordinary. Ask anyone in the alienage. She also had to be an accomplished singer, all around musician, dancer, and all the other things that go into entertaining, which she taught me. But a bard is also a spy and thief. The act of entertaining is just subterfuge, a way of gaining access or method of persuasion. So not only was she beautiful and a talented performer, she was an incredible athlete. She could move like a prowling cat, quiet as shadows."

Nesiara understood then why his body was so different. "She trained you then? More than music and dance."

Raviathan bit his lips. "She died before I learned much. A little sword work and how to use a bow without shooting myself. Some exercises. She would have taught me more, but she died. My father didn't want me to tell you."

"There seems to be a lot your father doesn't want me to know."

Raviathan took in a long breath. "You understand what it means that I'm going against his wishes. He's worried that… well that I have a reputation as a troublemaker. You said that yourself. He wanted this marriage. So do I, but I don't want to keep secrets from you."

She kissed him. "Thank you, Rav. It means a lot to me."

"Anyway," he said trying to lighten the sadness that had come over him. "I was telling you about my family. So, the Tevinter house was always looking for the most beautiful, the most talented elves in the country, and took the best they could afford. Something like four generations ago, they found two elves who lived by the sea, a boy named Farraige and his sister Derya. Unlike most Tevinters, they had palest skin, so pale they almost looked blue depending on the light. Their hair was midnight black, but most extraordinary were their eyes. Her eyes looked like the sea far away from land. Deep, deep blue. His were turquoise and sometimes shifted color between grays, sea greens, and blues.

"The two of them were strange elves. Sometimes they were calm, still and silently watching. Other times they raged, passionate and out of control. Some said they were bitter because they had no mother, and their father was always in mourning for her. He would pace up and down the shore day and night, his fishing boat forgotten. The children might have starved if not for the father's sister to look out for them.

"Their mother was always a mystery. No one in the village knew where she came from. One day she was there, in the father's house. He was always guarding her, never let her out of the house without him and would lock her in while he went out fishing. Some of the villagers wondered about her, and tried to talk to her, but she didn't speak Tevinter. Or Antivan. She was strange, so pearl pale they thought she was a ghost, but her hair was a black tangle. Her eyes were the most startling thing about her. Huge and shifting colors that were strangely bright. No one could say if she loved the fisherman or not, but while he was out, she would sing. She would always be at the window looking out at the ocean and singing the saddest most haunting melody anyone had ever heard in a language no one understood. She would pace back and forth watching the ocean day and night. Though it troubled the fisherman, he would not let her out.

"In time she bore him a son and then a daughter. After they were born, it seemed that she was at peace. She cared for the children as well as any mother and had stopped constantly watching the ocean. She would sing to her children, gentle lullabies in her own tongue. And so the fisherman left with the house unlocked when he went to town to sell his catch. When he returned that night, his children were screaming. The house was dark with no warming fire and the door was open. The woman was gone without a trace, leaving no clue as to what happened. There were no signs of a struggle. Some say she was kidnapped because, even though she was strange, she was eerily beautiful. Others say he was protecting her, and when he left her unguarded, tragedy struck. The oldest woman of the village said she left her mate and children as she had been waiting to do for years. The father never recovered. He drank and wandered the coast, staring out at the sea as she had done.

"Her children grew up wild, more like wolves than elves. They ran with their feet bare and hair ragged from wind. They weren't afraid of humans. When a slaver came to the village, having heard rumors of the children, he smiled at his fortune. Though strange, they had their mother's eerie beauty. The villagers were scared of the children and so made no protest and did not try to hide them. When the fisherman found out, he went into a mad rage. It had seemed like he had forgotten his children, but at the sight of their being taken away, he lost all sense and attacked the slaver. He was cut down before his children, his blood splattered across them, and that was when they learned to fear. The brother and sister were chained about the neck and led away.

"The slaver was paid enough that he could retire, and the children were used in the house's ongoing breeding program. Derya, the daughter, became weaker as months of captivity wore on her. She had grown up wild and free, and the chains seemed to drain her spirit. The Tevinters knew she would not last long, and though she was too young, they forced her to become pregnant. It was obvious that she would never be trained as a bard for their intrigues, even with her haunting voice, so they hoped for at least one child to enrich the line. Farraige was enraged and killed his sister rather than see her live caged with such men.

"The slave house was furious that such a treasure was lost, and Farraige was beaten within an inch of his life. Had he been a common slave, they would have killed him, but he was the second treasure. Farraige was stronger than his sister, but he too struggled in his life as a slave. He would not be forced to breed of his own will, so the slavers used blood magic. Two of their most promising slaves were impregnated before they lost Farraige. He was stolen by a rival house, and on the way there, jumped from the ship to be lost in the turning waves of the sea.

"His children were all that the slave house had left of their investment. The children both had the dark skin of their mothers, but their hair was black as night and their voices pure as the sky after rain. Most striking were their eyes, and their children's eyes, and so on. It marked their line, elves with eyes the colors of the sea, shifting grey, and blue, and green."

They were quiet for a minute, Raviathan gently stroking Nesiara's hair. "Rav," she said raising up to look at him, her eyes narrowed, "are you telling me that your great, great grandmother was a mermaid?"

He smiled mischievously. "I never said she was a mermaid. Just terribly mysterious." At her skeptical look, Raviathan laughed. "My mother said we have mermaid eyes. My aunt's eyes were a very deep blue, and I take after my mother. I've heard my uncle's were grey blue like stormy seas as were my grandmother's. My aunt would roll her eyes at that story and say, 'there's no such thing as mermaids. Stop filling the boy's head with that nonsense.' But when my mother put me to bed at night, she would whisper, 'mermaid eyes.'"

Nesiara giggled and snuggled into his chest. "Mermaids and rebel slaves. That's so much more exciting than my family. As far back as I know, it's mainly been Highever and Ferelden alienages. Too bad it's such as sad story."

"It's a sad story I know, but most of their stories about Tevinter were horrifying. I think it brought a little mysticism that made their lives bearable. I know it sounds exotic, this whole mermaid thing, but really, their lives were just one horror after another.

"In all their other stories, any slave who attempted to escape was hobbled. They had their feet crushed. That's probably what happened to Farraige. The reality of it, there were two kids who lived in a little village, and because they were beautiful, they saw their father killed, were kidnapped, imprisoned, and raped. Farraige too. And there isn't a single person who wants to know their great grandfather was raped. Imagine you hate your life so much you want to die, but they won't let you do even that. You can't resist because they use blood magic. You don't even have the right to your own life. Hobbled slaves wouldn't be any good anymore as bards, so they played music for the family that had crippled them and were used as playthings and breading cattle.

"You know, Ness, it may sound exotic, but in reality it doesn't feel great that my ancestors were tortured and lived their lives in fear. That they were bred to be murderers or glorified prostitutes. And 'being bred' sounds bad enough, but it's a lot cleaner than forced or raped, which means others were rapists. And no one wants to know they're the product of rapists either. One of the ugliest parts is, that it's still going on. I have relatives I've never met who still live that way, who are still slaves. Sometimes, if I think about their lives, it turns my stomach. It isn't fair that they got left behind while my family was able to make a new life."

Nesiara propped herself up to look at him. His hurt was clear in the way he didn't look at her. "Sweetheart, none of that is your fault. I'm sorry it hurts, but that isn't you. You don't bear any of the shame for that. Honestly, Rav. If one of the children found that out about their parents, would you let them feel shame for it?"

"Of course not," he said while rubbing her exposed back.

"Exactly."

There was a faint, sad smile on his lips when he turned back to her. "Yeah. But I like the mermaid story. I have to accept the ugly part because there's no changing that. And I know it's not my fault, but it still hurts. And there really isn't any such thing as mermaids. The reason I like the mermaid story is because I love my mother and aunt, and the uncle and grandmother I never met. They were real, and they did escape. For all the sadness, Farraige and his sister did escape that life. I think the idea of escape was what helped my mother change the course of her life."

She smiled back at him. "And you're going to tell your children the mermaid story, aren't you."

"I'm also going to tell them how their mother captured the Maker's light and gave it to me as a wedding gift."

She laughed and stretched out along him. "Maker bless you, Rav. You're so easy to love."

"Hey cous…in." Shianni stared wide eyed as the two scrambled on the floor to get their clothes on. Shianni started a slow laugh that kept building as she watched them.

"What is it?" Soris asked from the hall.

"No… nothing," Shianni replied, her lying voice high. "They'll be out in a minute."

"Damn you, Shianni," Raviathan muttered. Nesiara tried to get up only to fall on her butt when her legs got tangled in her small clothes.

Soris peeped over Shianni's shoulder. "Oh for love of the Maker," he said and threw his arms up. "It's so not fair having you for a cousin."

"Not fair?" Shianni asked.

"How are Valora and I supposed to compete with that… that…"

"Shut up!" Raviathan shouted at the two of them. "And get out, you little deviants!" He unhooked Nesiara's small clothes from her boots so she could work them back up as demurely as possible under the circumstances.

Shianni merely rolled her eyes and walked in. "I'm here to help with your wedding clothes, you ingrate. You should have locked the door. And besides, you were supposed to be at my house over an hour ago for fittings."

Nesiara put a hand over her mouth. "I forgot. I just came up to show you the fabric… and then…"

Soris folded his arms, his face squished in a pout. "So not fair."

"Come on," Shianni said, laughter still bubbling in her voice. "Valora is waiting at my place."

Nesiara grabbed the bundle and followed Soris, a deep pink coloring her cheeks. As Shianni was leaving, Raviathan clutched a handful of her apple red hair. She let out cry of surprise and turned to him. He gave her head a little shake as he glared hard enough to break stone. Her full mouth spread wide in a smile, and she started to laugh at him all over again. She pulled him into a hug, and the hand in her hair relaxed as he started to laugh with her. "Cousin, you're worse than an imp."

"Back at you."


	8. Married Life – Fickle Consequence

After she finished scrubbing the floor, Nesiara came down to see Raviathan working at the stove. On the table was his herbalist kit. Various bottles were open and laid out next to his pestle. The pot on the stove had what looked like warm cream simmering below a boil. "What are you making?"

He turned to smile up at her with glowing eyes. A light flushed warmed her cheeks, but she was pleased by the looks she always got from him. He went to her and lifted her off the ladder and into his arms. She giggled a little at his enthusiasm as they kissed, and he set her down. "It's an ointment. I have a standing delivery for this once a month."

"What's it for?"

He didn't say at first as he went back to stirring the mixture then placing three large glass jars on the table. "No lies between us, Ness. Don't think less of me for doing this."

She looked at him with solemn curiosity. "Okay." At least she had some warning.

"I know a few boys who were exiled." The consequences of that were known to all elves. Exile for most was like a death sentence. It was almost never revoked without full proof of the elf's innocence, which was next to impossible. In addition to exile, the offending elves would be shunned by all the alienage elves. Even family would no longer talk to them in part because of the ruling but also because of the shame it brought upon the family to have an exiled member. Basic survival with few resources or skills left young elves in a precarious position with few choices.

It was nearly impossible for them to secure work as a servant without family connections. If an elf was able to find decent work, which was unlikely, there were humans to beware of. Even with the poverty and poor maintenance, the pressure to stay inside an alienage was great. They were subject to the capricious and violent nature of humans if they left. Elves who lived outside the alienage often had their homes broken into and trashed if not outright burned. With so little left for them, it was an almost certainty that the elves Raviathan was talking about were prostitutes.

"Okay," Nesiara said carefully. "What's the ointment do?"

"A few months after this boy I knew was exiled, one of the dock workers, his uncle, asked me to go meet with him." Raviathan added a yellow paste that made the ointment smell musky. "He had started working at a brothel. He was getting sickly. And there was pain." Raviathan's eyes were tight as he stirred in the mix. "I made some inquiries at one of the higher end brothels where they take care of their workers. They said he was having a reaction to the men. It's rough on men. To have sex that way. They, um, it takes more preparation for them to become wet, and since they're prostitutes, no one cares enough about them to do that. It also… being with shems damages their lining. This ointment kills the seed and makes it easier for them. So, once a month I prepare this and give it to him. One of the other boys who work there requested it as well."

Before she reacted, Nesiara took a moment, folding her hands in her lap as she did so. Exile was never handed down easily. Those elves had done harm to their fellows in order to get that sentence. "Does anyone know about this?"

"No one. They think I'm getting supplies. Sometimes I am."

"I'm not sure I'm okay with this." Nesiara nibbled the inside of her lip. Raviathan put his head down and turned back to the stove. If anyone did know it would make him look bad, a traitor to the alienage. He wouldn't be exiled, but the other elves would turn cold. The young men might try to fight him for betraying the alienage. Valendrian was a fair man, and wise, but even he would have some harsh words for her husband. He was already having problems. They didn't need to complicate it. Still, he was trusting her. "Were you friends?"

"No. We knew each other. That's about all." Raviathan lifted off the pot and poured the hot ointment in the three jars, scraping out as much as he could with a spatula that was set aside for his specialized brews. "They need to cool before I can seal them." He put the pot and spatula in the tub for washing before returning to caress her cheek. "Don't think less of me."

Nesiara took his hand, and he sat next to her. "Why were they exiled?"

"The boy who contacted me beat his father once. Almost killed him. The other boy was caught having sex and hitting the girl for cheating on him. The two of them were both exiled. Everyone was sure she had a second, but the boy she named denied it and was sent to another alienage. I don't know what happened to her." He looked at Nesiara sorrowfully. "I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't help him, but he looked so bad, Ness. He was humiliated and suffering. His life was already turning into a nightmare. I just… it was bad enough as it was."

He was risking too much by helping them. Should she tell him to stop? If he were caught, it would risk her, their father, and future children. His cousins too. Everyone who cared about him. Nesiara looked down at his graceful hand in her thick, calloused ones. "Don't get caught."

He stood and pulled her into a fierce hug. "Thank you, Ness."

"Are you going today?"

"Yes," he said, holding her close. "Just after lunch."

Time to let the heavy subject go. Eolas had told her to laugh instead of spending days in tears. He would be careful. He trusted her, so she would trust him. "So," she said suggestively, "we have until lunch. Whatever shall we do with the time?"

"No idea," he teased back. "Does my lovely wife have some task that she requires of me?"

"Task? I wouldn't want to over work you. Be awful if I was called a nag or shrew this early on."

He kissed her, pressing their bodies even closer. "Not a task then. A favor? Certainly no chore."

"How about activity? Does that sound more pleasant?"

"Activity," he mused. "Sounds like an appropriate use of our time."

Grinning, she led the way back up the ladder. As she was climbing his hand slid up inside her dress to caress her thigh, making her blood thrum pleasantly in anticipation. She hoped he would never get tired of her. As she tried to go up the next step, her dress pulled. "Rav, what are you…?"

Oh Maker no. He was under her dress, his mouth at the back of her knee just above her stocking. What had been pleasant anticipation turned almost painfully tight as his mouth travelled slowly up her thigh. "No. Rav, no." He paid her no mind, his kisses wet, sensuous, and slowly rising. "Not here. Please."

"The door is locked," he said, nibbling at the back of her thigh. He reached up, both hands caressing up her legs, and very slowly pulled down her small clothes. Oh please Maker not this. What's he doing? Her dress, caught on his shoulders, rumpled and climbed, exposing more of her legs. He lifted one of her legs, her small clothes slipping off, then let her calf rest against his chest. It felt strange to be almost fully clothed, too confining, as if her skin was caged and wanting freedom. His breath on the back of her thighs was the only freedom her body had from her clinging dress. How far was he going to go?

"Rav," she moaned, moving her thigh wide to give him more room.

"Yes, my dearest wife?" Though she couldn’t hear it, she knew he was laughing by the shaking of his chest.

"If you're laughing at me…" she warned as her back arched involuntarily. He had seen her most hidden parts many times, but not like this. Never like this.

He was just past midway. "What, my dearest? What will happen?" he asked, his lips brushing her inner thigh as he spoke. He nuzzled her there, his teeth grazing her skin, before continuing in further with slow kisses. The silk of his hair was as much a caress as his lips.

"I'll… I'll squeeze your head."

"Oooh. That might not be so bad." His tongue flicked out high on her upper thigh, and her knuckles went white gripping the ladder. "I can think of worse fates than to be smothered between your legs." He bit her gently on the cleft of her bottom. The ache was becoming painful. His kissed her, licked her, nibbled her burning skin. "By the flames, Ness," he said letting his tongue roam high on her inner thigh, "your skin is so sweet."

"And you call me the tease," she whispered. "Brute." She wanted to feel him slide inside her. The blood in her groin was throbbing for it. She could feel her speeding pulse calling out for him. She wanted out of her clothes and have him spread her legs apart and take his pleasure hard.

He shifted, his cool hair slipping like silk along her thighs, as he turned around. She cried out as the throbbing got worse, and then he licked her. There. She clenched tight, her breathing ragged. What had he just done? What in the Maker's name had he just done? It was even worse now with his tongue sliding up and down her sex. She cried out in a mix of panic, embarrassment, and shock, and clutched the ladder rungs. His mouth was sucking at her, his tongue squeezing in between her tightened lips, coaxing her to open to him again. Oh no, oh no-no-no-no, what would he think of her? She cried out again, pained and wanting him.

One of his hands moved from holding her buttock to feeling inside the folds of her sex. She couldn't stay tight, and when she was forced open, his tongue wiggled back and forth, tasting her. Please, Rav please don't be disgusted with me. His fingers penetrated her, moving up and down, pressing her forward. His tongue was so strong as he tasted every inch of her.

All at once the tight throbbing all moved away as if pulled into another world, and a warmth spread from her groin down her legs and up her body in pulsing waves. She could feel it flush into her chest and stiffen her nipples, and down to the back of her knees as if steaming hot water were pouring down her legs. She wondered if she had lost control of her bladder. She couldn't tell. His tongue continued to lick at her, so a part of her guessed she hadn't.

Tears poured out of her eyes, and then her body tightened as if everything was pulled to a line running up her center. There was no controlling her voice, and her deep uncensored moan filled the room. The painful tightening loosened, unwinding inside her, and she would have collapse if her dearest, loving husband hadn't been holding her up. "Ra-av?" It sounded like his name had been wrung from her throat.

Still that tongue. Was he sucking at her? She could feel his lips fastened on her, his hand rubbing at a spot that felt like all the nerves of her body were connected to, and his glorious tongue. Her back arched, her butt sticking out ungracefully, and she wailed as her body seemed to twist inside her, driving her to his tongue. Her stomach and legs quivered, and her arms trembled as she tried to hold on. Oh Maker please, and her tears continued to pour out.

Her body had never felt so heavy before. Raviathan, always protective of her, took care to get her legs back on the ladder. Once he was out from under her skirt, he pulled her back so she fell in his arms. There was no way she would have been able to stand let alone climb up. She kept noticing the subtle shifts of her dress against her butt and hips. Without her small clothes on she felt that much nearer to him even though she was otherwise fully dressed. So odd. He put her on the one of the comfortable chairs, but she didn't want to let go. Ever.

"Just let me get cleaned up."

"Mmmph," Nesiara said. She wanted to curl up and sleep on him. Instead she watched him wash his face and rinse out his mouth. His hair was tussled. When finished, he put a mint leaf in his mouth to chew, pulled her out of the chair then had her sit in his lap. "Did I taste bad?"

"You taste like raspberries mashed with honey. I didn't think you would kiss me unless I cleaned up, and I need to kiss you right now."

She gave an inarticulate murmur and pulled him down for a mint flavored kiss. She was so loose she didn't think she'd ever be able to walk again. He'd have to carry her everywhere or the wind would float her away. She would spiral hither and thither, tossed about like a leaf carried off to sea. "I wonder what you taste like."

"I wouldn't know," he said with a quiet laugh.

"What about you, my love? Don't you need to…?"

"You scrubbed the top floor?" She nodded. "Well, there's a few spots you might need to get on the bottom floor."

Her neck twisted about, and she saw wet spots darkening the wood around the white of his seed. Her small clothes were hanging like a guilty secret on the ladder. "Ah well. As long as you're happy."

"Maker bless you, Ness," he whispered next to her ear. "My heart is yours." He squeezed her close and nuzzled her. "I am yours."

~o~O~o~

He left Nesiara with some tea to help refresh her. He had never thought of doing that to another girl before, but when she was on the ladder with her legs trembling, he would have done anything for her pleasure. Anything to make her happy. For the first time that thought troubled him. He still had no idea what he was going to do for his wedding gift to her. Maybe he could find something at the Market, some pretty combs for her hair. He did not want 'pretty'. He wanted something as extraordinary as her gift was to him. That would cost a fortune though. There was always getting a job to pay for a gift, but there was nothing that would pay enough and finding a job was difficult. He'd need to get one soon anyway, but he wanted to spend as much time as he could with her before that happened.

The city outside the alienage never felt right to him. It was too big, for one. Not enough that he couldn't move around with ease of course, but just enough to make him feel like an outsider. Noise seemed sharper on stone streets, and with no vhenadahl, he felt disconnected. There was a sterility that marked the shems, and not just in their city. They were as cold to each other as the rest of the city was to him. The man and woman walking down the street could be strangers as easily as a married couple. The two teenagers following them could be servants as easily as children. It always took him a few minutes to get use to their flat eyes and their thick, clumsy gaits.

Their odd manners and ways did more than just make him feel like an outsider. There was always a creeping paranoia that seemed to quietly but insistently hound him. A dirty look from the fishmonger could be disgust because he was looking at an elf or just the simple fact that the man was having a bad day. The former could spell trouble if he didn't keep his eyes down and moving forward. There was no way to tell when violence would follow him out here.

The houses and shops turned from plaster to wood the closer he got to the docks. The buildings were more cramped here, and Raviathan felt more comfortable away from stone and plaster. But that was merely shifting one form of worry for another as these areas were not safe, especially for an elf. The only time he went into a back alley was when he was at The Huntsman, a two story brothel that catered to sailors and dock working shems.

He knocked on the window, and after a moment, Bron came to let him in. Raviathan gave the other elf his hard case then slipped through himself. "Hey Bron. I brought three jars."

Bron sighed heavily as he sunk down on the large mattress. The only light in the room came from the window facing the dark ally, but there was no hiding the bruises that covered the other elf. The most obvious was a black eye and large purple contusion on his jaw, but there were others on his arms. "Thank the Maker."

Raviathan grabbed his healing kit and did a cursory examination of the elf. Bron pulled off his shirt so Raviathan could see the rest. Every rib was visible, and Bron's already sharp shoulders looked as severe as the exposed bones of a sparrow's wing. "Andraste's ass. How many were there?"

"Three shems. Is there anything you can do about them?" he asked looking at his bruises.

"If I can sneak up on them, sure." Bron chuckled, and Raviathan examined the skin to make sure it was not broken. "Any problems breathing?"

"No."

"I'll make a cream with concentrated arnica. Use it three times a day but stop if your skin gets irritated. Don't use it around your eye and wash your hands afterwards." Raviathan went to work, but this was an easy mixture: vegetable oil, arnica oil, and pressed cinemer root. If only he could afford cinemer oil. It was too expensive compared to the roots, but a little went a long way.

"Thanks," Bron said quietly as he watched Raviathan work. There was a fascination in the elf's pale blue eyes as if Raviathan was recreating the lost magic of their long past ancestors. "Pauler is getting worse."

Raviathan's hands hesitated at the name. "Bad?"

"Lesions. Losing a lot of weight. He can't get out of bed for more than an hour a day. Melville wanted to throw him out. Not good for morale when we can all see him get sicker."

"Turn around," Raviathan said. "I can at least get your back." He tried to be gentle as he rubbed in the oil. If it hurt him, Bron didn't say. Raviathan wondered again just how close he had been to exile.

"They needed the ointment," Bron said, his shoulders hunched and back curved to receive the oil.

"Huh?"

"The shems. They're not half as flexible as we are. Sometimes they bleed," Bron whispered as if it were a horrible secret he would be punished for sharing. Raviathan winced. From what Solyn had told him, shems were incredibly filthy. An open wound with all that bacteria in the anal cavity was begging for infection. There would be permanent scars too.

"Does that happen often?"

Bron leaned forward to give a better angle for his back. "Depends. When they can afford oil, they use that. There are a few who put a plug up themselves an hour before they start work. Gives them time to stretch. But this stuff works the best, 'cause they get sick too without it. They thought I had more hidden than I did."

Raviathan chewed his lip. "Bron. I've got some news."

"Yeah?"

"I'm married."

Bron turned around in a sudden panic and grabbed Raviathan's wrists. "Please Rav, don't stop coming. Please, whatever you want me to do, if it's money or anything, please…"

"Bron wait…"

"Oh Maker please I don't want to end up like Pauler please I'll do whatever you want Rav you can't…"

"Stop!" Raviathan couldn't blame him for panicking, but he did not want anyone to find out he was here either. An elf in a whorehouse like this was asking for trouble. "Bron, I've written down the formula for you. It isn't that hard to make."

"Me? But I don't know anything about that stuff."

"It isn't hard. I promise. Here, just take a look." Raviathan pulled out the paper with each step written in painstaking detail. "Pretend you're in front of a stove, and we're going to go through each step."

Bron shook his head as hopelessness settled into him. He pulled away and into himself as if he had just been given a death sentence. "I don't know how. Rav, if you stop, it's only going to be worse than if you hadn't come here at all. The shems will come after me."

"Bron, I swear to you, this isn't that hard. Look, here are the ingredients. You're going to take your base," Raviathan said pointing at the list. He read through the instructions once, and after a few minutes of patient explanation, Bron straightened enough to look over at the recipe. "Okay, so now we're going to pretend you're at a stove. It's hot enough. How do you tell?"

Bron read the instructions carefully. "I can hold my hand over the open stove for a count of three. What does that mean?"

"It just means that after you go 'one, two, three' you can't stand to have your hand over it anymore. Trust me, once you're doing it, it makes a lot more sense."

"But what if I can take the heat longer? Or I count too fast? Or something?"

Raviathan smiled. "Everyone is like that. Alright. Next step."

"Fill a pot with a quart of my base oil."

"That's right," Raviathan said and took him step by step twice more until Bron was familiar with it.

"You really think I can do this?"

"Who knows," Raviathan said with a grin. "You might go into business and start selling it to the shems."

Bron gave a reluctant sort of chuckle. "I'll need a bodyguard."

"Maybe," Raviathan said hoping that this would work. He laid a hand on an unbruised portion of Bron's shoulder, and the other elf squirmed and pushed back into his hand. The beaten elf closed his eyes, his hands trembling slightly. "If anything goes seriously wrong, let your uncle know, and I'll see what I can do. Okay?"

"How am I going to pay for this?"

Raviathan looked at the three jars. "Sell one of them. They can have it for a sovereign. At that point, you can make ten for every one you sell."

Looking over at the jar, Bron slowly started to nod. He took the paper in both hands and read it over. "Yeah. I can do this," he said trying to convince himself. He looked up at Raviathan, the pale blue of his eyes catching in the dim light. "Are you going to visit Pauler?"

Raviathan bit his lip. "There's nothing I can do for him." Bron didn't say anything. He looked down then back at the paper to study it. "Same bed?" Bron nodded. Raviathan put the three jars on the side table along with the arnica mix and closed his bag. "Don't forget to treat the rest of your bruises."

"I will. Thanks, Rav."

There was a very narrow back stairway to the private sleeping rooms of the whores. In the afternoon when patrons started to arrive the door would be locked from the inside, and that was the only security they had. Most of the staff were still sleeping or out front, so no one spotted him as he slinked through the halls. He knocked lightly at the door and entered when he heard a grunt. Pauler had once been big for an elf, and strong. When he was young, they teased him saying he must have shem blood to be so big. He was probably still tall, but that was it.

"Rav," he croaked and struggled to sit up. Sickness clung to the air making it seem too close and claustrophobic.

"Shh," Raviathan warned and closed the door. "Easy. Easy there big guy."

Pauler snorted and gave up the struggle. "Don't suppose you've got some medicine." His once deep voice was a sandpaper like rasp that labored through each word.

Raviathan looked him over. The raised lesions looked like long blood clots. They weren't too bad on his neck and arms, but when Raviathan raised the blanket and night shirt, he saw Pauler was covered by a multitude of small leach like lesions from chest to legs. His genitals had shriveled like old fruit where the pit of the disease rested. Crusty moss-like patches with scaled skin stained the inside of Pauler's thighs and over his withered penis, and slender lines of mold crisscrossed as if a spider had been weaving its nest there. Raviathan didn't breathe in until he re-covered Pauler. He couldn't get this disease from breathing, he knew that, but it bothered him nonetheless. Pauler started to laugh, a cackling, bitter sort of sound. "Well. By the look on your face, they should start building my pyre."

"I'm sorry. I can leave some painkillers," Raviathan offered. There wasn't anything for this. Diseases were hard to heal to begin with. He could cure the common rashes people contracted through sex along with a few of the more serious diseases, but this was a killer. People sometimes called it 'spider tracks' because of the mold or 'witch kisses' for the lesions, or some variation on those two names. Both terms had colorful myths of how the disease got started though nobody really knew. Spider tracks was one of the few sexual diseases that no one knew how to cure. The only good thing about it was that the disease had early warning marks and was hard to contract. Likely Pauler was bleeding where the semen touched him.

"Painkillers," he snorted. Pauler lay back, and there was a faint rattle to his breathing. "Melville wants to kick me out." Raviathan didn't know what to say. Saying 'sorry' again seemed trite. He couldn't talk to Melville. Once the owner saw him, he'd have a hard enough time trying to get out of the brothel with his ass intact. "Maybe he should. I'd say don't bother to wait for me to die before the dustmen take me to the commoners' pyre."

Raviathan sat down on the floor and listened. He wished he had some great wisdom to impart, the way Valendrian did, but he had nothing. So he listened as Pauler talked. "All these years. Even he could tell there was something wrong with that shem. 'Nuff coins and it didn't matter. There's always someone new to replace what elves he loses. You think there's a Maker, Rav?"

"I do."

"Ha. If I ever saw the Maker, I'd want to spit in his face. Then take his bride and screw her ass, make her scream and bleed until she got this witch's ticks disease. All those fucking monsters at the alienage with their shaming and judgment. They did this. Threw me out to torture me slow. Never get out of line, don't you once step too far or get too rebellious or out you go. No family. Talk to them and it's like you're a ghost. Friends too. You're just a walking ghost they can't even see. I grew up with them. Five of us all in one room for fifteen years. Even my little brother. I protected him, Maker damn his eyes. Wouldn't even look at me.

"And shems just waiting to snatch you up like wolves. They prowl around and wait for the young ones. They don't even have to hunt us. They just have to sit by the gates and wait until we're flung out, then they take turns ripping us apart. Served up to the wolves. A banquet of baby elves.

"Where the fuck was I supposed to go? You tell me that, Rav. You sit there all quiet with your sorry. This could have been you, but you know that, don't you. The elves who were thrown out told me. Always them, never you. Why not you? Why the fuck were you so special? You sit there clean as you ever were, like tar don't stick to you, but we both know how close you came."

"Do you want me to go?"

"No, I don't want you to go," Pauler said looking at him as if he were offended. "I want you to sit there and listen." A choked cough forced Pauler to stop. A line of dark yellow phlegm splattered out to hang on his chin, ignored. Red flecks of blood spotted his lips and sheet. "Every time I pee I can see the spider tracks. It's like my body isn't mine anymore. I've got some decaying corpse's body that I'm stuck in. A ghost in a rotting cadaver. I wasn't sure about that shem. Thought there was something not right. Broke my ass like he was crazy, and yelling at me that it was my fault. Hitting me. Bit my ear too. Made it bleed. What could I do?

"There's not much worse than dying alone. Bron's the only one been keeping me here. Melville'd throw me out weeks ago, but Bron's been bribing the other whores so they'll all be against Melville. Don't know how he's been doing it, but there he is. But he can't stand to be around me anymore. None of them can stand to look at me let alone touch me. I use to like that. When my mother would hold me. I'd be bruised, and she'd sing to me. And then here, it's all turned around. After weeks you still can't walk right and hurt all the time. Everything you were gets turned against you. What I did to Desha gets done to me twice a week. They'd pay extra to punch me. If they didn't Melville would fine 'em and take the coins himself. You know what happened to her?"

"No." Raviathan wouldn't have known about Pauler except for Bron, and only about Bron through his uncle. Desha with her strange eyes was as gone as ghosts wandering the streets.

"So stupid," Pauler said tiredly. "I gave up my life. I knew what it could cost. I just… I didn't think it'd happen to me. I want to say I didn't know, but I did. That's the worst part. If I could blame someone else… It's my fault I'm here." He stopped when a coughing fit overtook him. Turning to the side, his tongue stuck out in a purplish point. Ulcer like sores covered the back of his head, stained his pillow brown and yellow.

Raviathan knew he should help. He was a healer, but he didn't want to get close. It was hard enough to stay in the same room knowing he was breathing the same air. It was cowardly and grossly insensitive to sit there and watch. Solyn would have been disappointed in him, the weight of which he could feel even though she had died almost two years ago. Pauler hacked and wheezed until blood splattered on his blanket. A small red clump sat in the blood splatter as if accusing Raviathan for escaping exile.

Pauler leaned back and wheezed, a high whistle undercutting his labored breathing. "Rav. I don't want to die. Even after all of this, seven years of getting beaten and screwed, I don't want to die. Those Chantry bitches won't see to a diseased elf whore. When I die, I'm going to be exiled all over again. The Maker isn't going to take me. I'm going to be all alone when I die, and then I'm going to be left in darkness and alone for eternity." Pauler started weeping, and Raviathan put his head between his knees.

"I'm sorry."


	9. Married Life – Lost or Never Had

"The old knight was really drunk," Nesiara said as she watched Raviathan mop up the shop floor. She was sitting on the counter, legs dangling over the side. "He couldn't figure out how to get out of the alienage. He fell and knocked his helmet sideways then staggered around and ran into a house. My sister threw up a stone so it would land on him and said, 'it's raining. Ser knight, you should hurry or you might rust.' We all started throwing stones so they would land on him and ran in a wide circle around him crying 'it's raining, it's raining.' The knight kept stumbling about going, 'Eh? Eh? What's this?' Then we started chanting, 'Life's unjust, you shall rust, Statue still, you'll roll downhill.' Then my sister said, "Ser knight, please come this way. We'll help you out.' We must have circled him around the alienage ten times, running him into every building on the way."

"And I thought I was a trouble maker." Raviathan leaned on a wall as he laughed.

"Get this. When we went to the Chantry that week, I saw him talking to another man. He said, 'that storm came on all a sudden. Devilish hail it was too. Those poor little elven children must have been bruised by it, but they wouldn't leave me, Maker bless them. Not until I was back in the city proper.'"

"We're closed," Raviathan called when there was a knock at the door. Finished with the mopping, he went to his wife and kissed her wrist. "And here I thought you were smitten for shems."

"Not all of them," she said with a twinkle in her eyes. "And we didn't hurt him. Just had a bit of fun."

He was about to say something when there was another knock. He raised one eyebrow in annoyance. "I said we're closed."

"Please," Nola said from outside. "I was supposed to get an onion for dinner, and I forgot."

Lips pressed, Raviathan opened the door. "One bit and hurry up."

She came in, head bowed, but stopped in surprise when she saw Nesiara sitting on the counter. "Oh. I didn't…"

"Get your onion, one bit," Raviathan reminded her, and Nesiara wondered at the harshness of his tone.

"Ah…" Nola lowered her head further and hurried to the counter to leave the coin then picked up an onion without examining it.

"Wait," Nesiara said. "I'm still learning names. You are…?" Nola briefly turned in her direction without looking at her then ran out the store. "What was that about?"

Raviathan went to hold her and rested his head on her chest. "Alarith says she has a crush on me."

"Yeah, that's the look of it. Have you talked to her about it?"

"She'll get over it." Raviathan kissed her the base of her neck. His lips lingered over her fine skin to caress her.

"You should talk to her."

"I think it's better to let it go."

"What you're doing is cruel. You can at least tell her you're flattered but the circumstances weren't right. That it's nothing to do with her."

He sighed. "She wouldn't be the first. A few years ago there was someone else. The marriage was already arranged, but… I wanted to… I didn't want…" He turned his head to smell Nesiara's hair. "The last thing I wanted to do was cause more pain. I felt horrible about it, but I didn't know what to say. I just made everything worse."

"How long ago was that?"

"Almost three years ago."

Nesiara ran her fingers through his hair. "That was three years ago. Just talk to her. I'm sure you're much smarter now."

"You know, I should write to your sister and get some of the stories about you growing up and being foolish."

"Oh, I was never foolish," she said with a smile. "Just born perfect I suppose."

"Of course you were my sweet," Raviathan said then leaned in to kiss her. "Still, I should write your sister. Just for the sake of argument, what stories, obvious lies I'm sure, would she tell me about you?"

"Hmm. Maybe the time I confused the salt and the sugar when I made a pie for her birthday. It's a lie of course, but our family and her friends did make the most interesting faces."

Raviathan laughed and kissed her temple. "What else?"

"Complete and total lies my sister would tell you? Maybe there was that time I was changing my little brother's diaper and he peed all over my front. In my Chantry clothes too. Or when I was making a dress and accidentally sewed the sleeves on wrong and inside out. Or when we started giggling uncontrollably during the Satinalia Annum service and our embarrassed parents had to send us out. There is nothing worse than Chantry giggling. It's absolutely impossible to stop. But these are total lies. Not one of them is true."

"Should I have you swear in front of a mother that you're telling the truth?"

"No. You should take my word for it because I would never do any of that. Obviously."

Raviathan ran a hand through Nesiara's hair admiring the shine. So soft. "The spirits envy your perfection. I, however, am not perfect. And I'm just going to screw it up."

Nesiara sighed and rubbed his back. "Rav. I've rarely met someone who is so gentle. Just be patient and listen. You can already do that well enough."

Head down in resignation, he sighed. "Here are the keys. I'll be back to help with dinner." There were so many ways this could get worse, but Raviathan left to find Nola anyway. She was probably home already or near it in which case it would have to wait. Good. This was stupid. He turned down a narrow alley that would lead to her home but froze when he saw her leaning against one of the buildings. She looked up, tears streaking her face, bright in the gloom of dusk. She shrank into herself in embarrassment and ran down the alley. "Nola wait! Please."

She hesitated but didn't turn around. This was just awkward. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry." He reached out to touch her arm, but she skittered away from him.

"Don't touch me," she hissed.

Bad idea. All of it. "Okay. I didn't mean…," Maker's ass, what to say? "We've never talked…"

Nola turned to face him then, her chin lifted defiantly. It was a shock to see her angry. She was one of the quietest elves he knew. "You have that… that wife now, so why would you want to talk to me? You never wanted to have anything to do with me." She scowled at him. Even angry she could not raise her voice, so her words were sharp but quiet in as much rage as she would allow herself. "Besides, why would I want to talk to you? You just use girls. And you're mean. I'm glad you never wanted me." Raviathan's shoulders slumped, and he put his head down. "You hear that? Those girls were too young to know better, and then you come along and got them all twisted up so, so you could do to them what you wanted to. You never cared about any of them. Anyone else would get exiled, but not you. And that wasn't right. It wasn't fair to any of us, especially the girls who didn't know to stay away from you. And… and this way I can be pure. When I'm married, my husband will… he'll know I'm a good girl who waited for him. You would have just ruined that. So I'm glad."

He had never heard that many words out of Nola in a week let alone in one speech. "You're right," he said quietly. "I never meant to hurt anyone. But that doesn't excuse the fact that I did anyway." What could he say? It was true that he hurt the other girls, and they both knew it. He felt like a fool staring at her shoes, but he was too ashamed to look her in the face. It was embarrassing that everyone knew about him and what he'd done. If he knew Nesiara was going to be his wife, he would have been much more careful with who he shared himself with. It was supposed to be special, and right now, with Nola staring at him, he felt like a pair of soiled old boots. "I, um, I just wanted to say that your husband is going to be very lucky. I always thought you were a good person. You were always so devout. I didn't think you'd… anyway. If you're happy, then I guess it was for the best. And I am sorry."

Ness, why did you make me do this? Raviathan folded his arms over his stomach and left. Maybe this wasn't as bad as Jaslyn, but that didn't mean it wasn't a disaster. There were times he wondered if he'd ever be able to hold his head up in the alienage. Once he was out of the alley, he jogged back to his apartment ready to be rid of these feelings. Ness would be there, and he wanted to hold her and smell her hair and forget about everything else.

A young boy with old eyes the color of jade stepped out when Raviathan was halfway down the main street. "Justen? What are you doing out here?"

"I don't want to go home."

Raviathan knelt down, and Justen wrapped his arms around his cousin's neck. "Sweetheart," Raviathan said as he stood with Justen in his arms, "you know it's dangerous for you to be out so late. And it's getting cold. What were you going to do?"

"I don't know," he said burring his face in Raviathan's neck.

Ever since his sister had been taken to the Circle a year ago, his family had been strained. Raviathan kissed his little cousin and squeezed him tight. "Let me talk to your parents. If it's alright with them, you can stay at my place tonight." He felt Justen's tears against his neck but there was no accompanying shake that most children had when they cried. "Hey little bear. Don't you ever forget I love you. And your sister loves you even if she's far away. And your parents love you too. They're just hurting right now." He ran his nose up the long ridge of Justen's ear. In another year or two, the boy would be too old for that, but for now it was a comfort. "You know, I really miss Eldwyn."

"Me too," Justen said in a tiny voice.

"You remember what she looks like?"

Justen's arms tightened around Raviathan's neck. "It's getting harder."

"Well, I remember. You know what, my wife is really good at drawing. Maybe together we can make a picture of her, something you can keep so whenever you miss her, you can take out the picture and remember all the happy times you had. Would you like that?"

"Yeah."

A half hour later Raviathan was at the stove cooking while Nesiara and Justen collaborated on a picture. He looked over his shoulder at their work. "Her eyes were a little more far apart. And…" he made a shape in the air, "elliptic with the ends turned up."

Nesiara sketched and cleaned the lines. "Like this?"

"That's it," Raviathan said. "Wow, that's looking good. What do you think little bear?"

Justen smiled up at Nesiara with open adoration. He snuggled next to her, and Nesiara put an arm around him. "I think you like it."

"I forgot what she looks like, but that's her."

"I told you." Raviathan shook the pan to turn the potatoes over. "My wife, beautiful and talented."

"Are her eyes the same color as yours?" Nesiara asked.

"Yeah."

"Good. I'll finalize the sketch then add a little color to bring it out. It's easier when I have a model," she said and kissed the top of his head. "What's your favorite memory of her?"

Justen thought about it while Nesiara cleaned the portrait. "One time my mom gave her a jar of peaches, and we all sat on the floor and shared. It was funny and we were all laughing and she made a game of putting a drop of the juice on one of our hands and someone else had to lick it off."

"You know, my brother is about your age. He and my parents are all the way over in West Hills, and I miss him. And then I think about the time he dipped my hair in ink, and I chased him all around the alienage yelling at him." They both laughed at her story, and when Raviathan glanced over his shoulder to look at her, she felt the now familiar warmth spread in her chest. "So, to remember peaches, I'm going to use those colors in the background. But if you two have the same coloration, she'll need something cooler. Maybe apple red," she mused more to herself.

Raviathan and Justen shared a look of confusion. "Sweet Ness? Are you alright?"

"Hmm? Of course I am. Why do you ask?"

"You do know that red isn't a cool color, right?" Was she color blind?

She laughed at their looks. "Justen, go get me that apple." She pulled out another sheet of thick paper and a kit of slender colored chalks then placed the apple in the center of the table. "Red chalk only," she said showing Justen the chalk piece then drew a quick representation of the apple. It looked like an apple shaped red blob. When Raviathan could take a break from cooking, he stood behind her to watch. "Now, instead of red, I'm going to use blue to shadow and highlight, and a little bit of yellow." They watched as strange blue and dark blue forms were shaded that didn't look anything like an apple. She added a yellow corona and little flecks of green. When she added the red overlay, smudging the colors together or leaving tiny traces to show through, an apple image formed that looked real enough to pick up.

Justen stared wide eyed. "That looks so real."

Raviathan nodded in mute appreciation. "You're going to burn dinner," Nesiara said.

"Maker's… beard," Raviathan amended for Justen's sake as he rushed back over to the stove.

Nesiara held the apple close for Justen to see clearly as she explained. "Do you see now how many colors it has? Apples aren't just red. Next time you see a storm, really look at the clouds. They're never just grey. There's almost always blue, and often there's shades of pink, rose, and peach, little hints of orange or purple. One of the first things my grandmother taught me was to see the colors within colors." She took out what looked like a large perfume bottle and sprayed a fixative so the chalk would not smudge. "For you. To remember the lesson."

"Thank you." He watched in rapt attention as Nesiara add the colors necessary to capture his sister on paper. Step by step, she explained the process of what colors she chose and why, how they affected one another, and how each added to the mood that went beyond a straight forward representation.

Later that evening, when Justen was tucked into the top bunk, Cyrion was downstairs smoking his pipe, and Raviathan and Nesiara were snuggled together in bed, Raviathan kissed her hands. He whispered, "I want you to touch me with these hands." He held her wrist and glided her hand across his shoulder, down his chest then around his side and back. Her thick, calloused hand roamed over his back along the hard muscle and slight raise of his bones then caressed down the dip of his spine to the curve of his rear. He moved with her hand's caress, their bodies pressing and melding together. "I love your hands," he whispered nuzzling her neck. Creator's hands. In her hands he wanted to be recreated, have the disjointed lines erased and made into someone clean. With these hands he would be ready to accept the colors she would bestow on their lives.

~o~O~o~

"We need more soap," Nesiara said as she finished scrubbing Raviathan's shirt.

"I'll get some from Alarith tonight." Raviathan wrung out her skirt and added that to the sack. A neighbor on the third floor let them use their clothes line once a week in exchange for some babysitting Raviathan had been doing for the last five years. Before that they had to dry the clothes in the room which could leave it smelling moldy when the weather was bad.

"We need some to do the dishes."

Raviathan wrung out the shirt she gave him. "Mmm. That's right. I'm still getting use to having a third person in the house again." He leaned over and kissed her bare shoulder. "After we hang the line then."

Shaun never helped her sister do the wash Nesiara thought with a sly smile. He never helped with cooking or cleaning or doing the sewing even when they were newly fasted. While Shaun was a decent sort of man, and Nesiara would take that over many of the other boys her age when she considered what her match might be like, but he was very dull. She finished the last of the wash, just some socks that had also needed darning, and started emptying the tub one bucket at a time when there was a knock at the door. Raviathan took the bucket and said, "I'll do that. Would you get the door?"

"It's probably for you," she said with a grin. He shrugged not looking at her. She smiled as she went down the ladder. He had her answer the door just so she wouldn't have to empty the tub.

A young girl was at the door. She had flat brown hair in a square cut to her shoulders, a small mouth that was at odds with her square jaw, and flat cheekbones. She was only a few years Nesiara's junior, maybe fifteen or so. Her dress was too big for her and very patched. She was small, even for an elf, and the dress made her look that much smaller. Dark steel blue eyes registered surprise to see her at the door. "May I help you?" asked Nesiara.

"Um," she looked around the room. "I was told Raviathan lives here."

So, she didn't know him. "Please come in." Nesiara called up, "Rav."

There was another slush of water out the window to the back ally then he hopped down. He looked at the girl with mild interest. "Yes?"

Her eyes widened at the sight of the exotic elf. Nesiara knew how she felt. Whatever she was here for, Raviathan was a breathtaking sight. "I was told you could help me," she said meekly. Raviathan was quiet as he waited for her to continue. The girl pursed her lips and walked over to him keeping her eyes on the floor. He bent down so she could whisper in his ear.

He nodded and gestured to their eating area. "Yes. Please, have a seat. Ness, would you get my herbalist kit?" He started adding wood to the stove and stoked it to heat the tea kettle. He had told her about this, but it was the first she would actually see him practice. She wanted to ask him more, especially if his father disapproved, but now was not the time. Nesiara left with a nod. It was actually rather amazing how much he had kept from his father. When she returned the girl was staring at the table stone faced. Nesiara handed him the hard cased bag and took one of the more comfortable chairs by the window to darn socks. If he wanted to, he would ask her to go up stairs. It was just the illusion of privacy as she would be able to hear everything anyway.

Raviathan started to work pulling out various small jars and examining them. He was not mixing anything yet. As he examined his stock with cool efficiency, he asked her in that calm voice of his, "When was the last time you bled?"

"More than two months ago." The poor girl. Raviathan had told her their first night together that she did not need to feel trapped in a pregnancy. Still, as needed as it was, it could not have made the girl feel good about what she was doing. She was also clearly embarrassed having this discussion with an unfamiliar man, but she had little choice given her age and need.

Raviathan was cool but compassionate as he spoke. "Sometimes women, especially at your age, have a skipped period. Have you been nauseous, tired, dizzy, or needed to pee more?"

She looked at her hands squirming. She said quietly, "I have been more tired. My friend said she was… had aches. Here," she indicated her breasts with a quick wave.

Raviathan's voice remained soothing. He had a surprisingly powerful baritone and was often soft spoken to cover it the way some tall people slouched. "That is a symptom. It could also be that you're still growing. Have you felt anything else? Do you want some foods more or less? Some women get a burning in their chests or feel breathless."

"I don't want milk or cheese," she said hurriedly. "I use to love milk, but just the thought makes me sick. Um, smells are stronger. More sour. I'm getting headaches. I want to cry all the time."

Raviathan sat down next to her and patted her hand. He said softly, "It's okay. We're going to make sure you're all right. No one will ever know unless you want to tell them."

She sniffed and nodded. "I didn't know what to do." The tears started to flow. "I overheard one of the servants talking about you, how you helped her brother who had pneumonia. I can't do this. I can't. They'll get rid of me."

Raviathan rubbed her shoulder and held one hand over hers. "I can make a tea. I'm afraid I can't add any sugar or honey. It'll change the composition too much. You'll need to drink it all. The good news is you can still have children in the future. There will be some bleeding for the next few days, but it should be less than a normal period. If you bleed for more than four days, or if there is a lot of blood, come back here immediately. Sometimes there might be some cramping, just like when you normally bleed. Again, if it's too much, come back here. You'll be tired for the next few days. If possible try and switch your chores with someone else. No sex for a week at least. A month is better."

He rubbed her shoulder again as she gave a hiccuping sob. "I…I'll try."

There was a hesitancy that caught both their attention. Raviathan held her hand and leaned down to try and look her in the eye. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I…" she looked up at him miserably. "I'm an orphan. I work for Lord Braden. If…if I refuse him, he'll send me into the streets. I can't… I can't…"

Raviathan's brow creased in pain, and he put an arm around the girl. Nesiara took the other chair next to the girl to hold her hand. Raviathan said trying to keep the anger from his voice, "What that man is doing, he has no right. He has no right. You don't have to live like that. Why don't you move to the orphanage here?"

She hunched over. "In a few years I'll need to find work again. It'll be the same all over again, but I won't have a dowry. No one will take me. Especially… after I've been… with him."

"That's not true," Nesiara said firmly. "It's like Rav said. No one will know. Girls break their skin all the time when they're young and playing. Your husband doesn't have to know."

Raviathan looked up at Nesiara. "Alarith is looking for a new assistant." He patted the girl's shoulder, "It's part time work. You'll have to clean the shop, run errands, and learn how to do some bookkeeping. He'll be willing to hold your earnings for you while you live in the orphanage. You'll still have a dowry."

Nesiara smiled gently at the girl. "See. It's not so bad. If you move here, Rav can watch you for the next few days, and you can recover in peace. There's work too."

"Would you move to the alienage if you had a job?" Raviathan asked.

The girl hiccuped again. "I suppose so."

"I'll talk to Alarith as soon as we're done" Raviathan said. "If the job is still open."

"I'll ask now," said Nesiara. "I'll be back before you're done."

She heard Raviathan say as she left, "Even without a job, you need to get away from that man."

The door closed, and Raviathan stood to make the mix. "Now you have to be sure that this is what you want. Don't worry about that lord. You can still have the child. Valendrian, our elder, will support you, that you had no choice in the matter."

She shook her head sadly but firmly. "I don't want it. It gives me nightmares just thinking about it."

Raviathan patted her shoulder and began to work. He had his pestle out and added ingredients to an empty cup, a mug, and his pestle. "I just want to be clear. Once you drink this, there's no going back."

She looked up at him with large eyes. "You said I could still have children."

"You can," he assured. "Just not this one."

"That's fine." Her hands clutched together as she looked down in barely contained anger. "I don't want that sick shem's baby."

Raviathan started to grind the little roots and herbs in the pestle. "Will you leave then?"

She looked back up at him, her tears made the natural shine in her eyes stronger. "I can't." At Raviathan's silent question she said, "You don't know him. It's like he wants to own me. If I leave, he'll come after me."

"Shems rarely come here. Never the nobles. Leave quietly and he'll never know this is where you came."

She heaved in a breath and ground the heal of her clenched hand into her eye. "There are other servants from the alienage who work there. They'll tell him just to get a bit of coin." She heaved another breath. "It's not that bad. I'll get through it, and when I'm old enough, I'll move to another alienage where they don't know me."

Raviathan added water to the mug to let the herbs steep. He took a tiny bottle filled with a dark liquid and added five drops. "What's your name?"

Steel blue eyes looked up. "Please. I just want to get rid of it."

"I know," he said gently. "I'd just like to say something other than 'hey you'."

"Isa."

"Isa. Would you be willing to talk to our hahren after we're finished here?" She looked at her hands considering. He added three drops of a pale amber oil to the cup along with the herb mix in the pestle and measured a tiny pile of what looked like yellow crystalline sand on one finger that went into the hot water. Once that was finished he stirred the mix in the mug rapidly. The herb and oil scents added to the wood fire along with a bitter, acidic scent. Raviathan, satisfied the solution was mixed enough, added the contents of the cup to the mug and stirred slowly.

"I…" she began. "I heard he's a good man."

"I respect him a great deal." Raviathan put the cup in front of her. "This will taste bad. Best to drink it quickly."

She wrapped her hands around the cup. "No one will know?"

Raviathan sat next to her. "Only the three of us. Ness won't say a word. Neither will I."

"Alright. I'll talk to him," she said and downed the mix as quickly as she could.

~o~O~o~

"Father will be home soon," said Raviathan. They had to air out the room to get rid of the lingering scent of the tea mixture.

"Have you had to make that mix often?" Nesiara asked as she finished chopping the vegetables for dinner.

"Um. A few times," Raviathan said reluctantly. "It's usually women who already have children. They can't afford any more." Nesiara nodded understanding the sense of that. He wasn't going to tell her about the time Gareth dragged his crying wife to their apartment once. Gareth had demanded he make the mix for her. Children were normally valued due to the low elven birthrate, but they had four children already, remarkable for an elven family, but they were struggling. Gareth was big for an elf, about the size of a human woman. His wife wouldn't look at either of them. She was sobbing and beyond words. Raviathan refused. When Gareth started to get physical, Raviathan threatened him with a kitchen knife. A few weeks later Valendrian came to his door with the woman in tow. He had to bandage the woman up and splint her arm after her husband had thrown her down the stairs. That was when he got stern warnings from both his father and Valendrian. Just like Solyn, it would be only too easy for the wrong thing to happen.

It was one of those situations that Raviathan thought of often. He would keep going back to it wondering if there was a solution or what he could have done differently. While he would love to beat Gareth or get him kicked out of the alienage, his family would starve for sure. Valendrian had been counseling Gareth, and so far his wife hadn't needed Raviathan's skills again. Valendrian's calm in the face of that disaster bothered Raviathan's sense of justice. In truth, Valendrian's solution was the best for everyone involved, or at least Raviathan couldn't come up with something better.

Raviathan pulled out the fruit cake from the oven. It had been his idea to bake it to cover any of remaining traces of the herbal odor. Nesiara shook her head in amazement. "You win. I really thought you'd need a brick oven for the heat consistency. I don't know how you were able to do that in this old iron oven." She examined it closer in mock suspicion which earned her a suspiciously wary glance from Raviathan. "There aren't even any burnt parts. And the cooking is even." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Talk. I know you have some sort of secret."

"What? Me? Noooo," he said. "You're crazy."

"Ha. I already know you're good at keeping secrets. Out with it."

He took the chopped vegetables for dinner and added them to the skillet. "Don't know what you're talking about."

She reached around to tickle his ribs. "Come on," she cajoled.

Raviathan raised an eyebrow. "I'm not ticklish," he said smugly. Nesiara raised up on her toes to nibble his ear, making him squirm. She continued until he made an involuntary, "Ahh," from her sucking. "I… uh… didn't do anything. Really."

She had one arm over his shoulder to hold him in place as she breathed with her teeth still on his ear, "I don't believe you."

He grabbed her arm and bent forward, lifting her off the floor, her body resting on his back. She laughed at the unexpected maneuver as she wiggled on his back. "Let me down. I demand it. This instant." He leaned back up letting her go with a grin. She slapped his arm playfully.

"I have to say, I like the feel of your breasts squashed against my back like that."

"Ruffian."

He huffed at her accusation. "I've been using this oven since my grandmother started teaching me how to cook as a child. Of course I know how to bake a cake in it."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Our oven has been in my family for five generations and my mom can't cook like that or my sister. And believe me, I've fired enough clay to know about kilns and ovens. You've got some trick you're not telling me."

"Get away from me, crazy lady," he said, unable to hide his smile.

"Rav. I know you're keeping something from me." She squished her nose at him. "I'll get it out of you."

As she was going back to the stove Raviathan caught her about the waist and held her close. His fingers traced through her pale blonde hair as he smiled gently down at her. "You're so easy to love, sweet Ness." He held her close for a long kiss, and if they didn't have food cooking, she knew he would have taken her up the ladder to make love. Not that he was always patient enough to wait until they were upstairs. As it was she felt his desire through their clothes and had to fight the urge to slide her hand under his pants. "One day, there won't be any secrets between us."


	10. Married Life – Transformations

"Rav, can you help me?" Nessa, a third cousin and childhood friend, was fiddling nervously with the balls of coarse lard soap on the counter. If the problem had been medical, she would not have spoken about it in the open.

"What's wrong?" Raviathan asked. Isa, nibbling her lower lip, looked between the two of them. The newest addition to the alienage had been settling into her life in the orphanage over the last two weeks.

"My parents can't pay the new rent fees. With the trouble in the south, the King has called for workers. My parents both signed up. Rav, they want me to go with them."

What was wrong with that? She was only a year and a half his junior. Jobs weren't expected of children, but they weren't all that unusual. "It sounds like an adventure. I don't see what you're worried about."

Nessa shifted her weight from side to side almost dropping the lemon balm scented soap in her agitation. "They'll be stationed at Ostagar with the military. I… I don't want to be around a bunch of shems who… who haven't seen a woman in months."

"Mm," Raviathan murmured and bit his lips. From his visits to the Huntsman, he knew what it felt like to be prey, unarmed and outnumbered. Nessa had even fewer resources than he did. All it would take was one unprotected moment away from her busy parents, but even with their presence it would not be enough to protect from shems bent on using her. "Where's your father?"

"Packing up. What are you going to do?"

"Just talk. Isa, you're in charge until Alarith or I return."

"Yes ser." She had been eyeing Nessa curiously during the exchange, her experience of elves her age consisting of only a few weeks of shy questions. "You've… have you been outside the alienage much?"

Nessa looked at the girl distractedly. "Never."

Raviathan left the two with their awkward conversation. Isa was understandably strange to the other children, but he hoped time would ease that. Even among older children who were learning the harsher realities of their life, her cynicism had too much bite. If she was looking for a marriage in a few years, that bitterness would need to be softened up. As it was, Raviathan was impressed with her resilience and independence.

What worried him now was Claye. The man was stubborn with a stern glower that had been turned more than once in Raviathan's direction during times of too exuberant play. Had it been two months ago, Raviathan wasn't sure he would have tried, but over the last month he had slowly getting use to his new position in the community. All the adults had been treating him differently. His opinions now carried weight on more than just medicine. To the children, he was still a playmate and storyteller, or occasionally someone to help solve their problems, as with Nessa, but for the first time the adults were accepting him as one of their own.

A quiet red head of middle years was packing a small cart in front of the apartment Nessa used to live at. There were two others doing the same, a young childless couple and another with children already married. "Hey Beth," Raviathan said to the red head. "I heard you're moving."

"Oh. Hello Rav," she said though her focus was on wrapping her dishes. Nessa took after her mother in that both women tended towards quiet, almost subservient demeanors. "I sent Nessa to the store for some soap and a needle. Did you see her?"

"Yeah."

She looked up at him then. "Not moving. Most of our things will stay with my sister. You've heard about the King's army?" He nodded. Beth went back to her packing then, her eyes averted. Raviathan understood then she was ashamed that everyone would know they couldn't afford their home anymore. Packing out in the open was only compounding the hurt. Claye would most certainly be pricklier. If he was going to persuade the elder elf, he'd have to find a way that would save Claye's wounded pride.

"Claye's upstairs?"

"I wouldn't recommend talking to him right now," Beth murmured.

Raviathan squeezed her shoulder in silent support then went to what had been Nessa's home. Claye was rolling up their sleeping pallets in the nearly bare room. Only the large furniture remained that couldn't be taken out without dismantling it first. "Hey Claye."

The old man didn't look up. His white hair and their flashing eyes were the brightest things in the deserted room. "Is there something you needed?" he asked with an added bite to his voice.

"I have a favor to ask."

"A favor?" Claye paused to glance at him, the lines around his mouth deep in a sneer. "I'm not exactly in a position to grant any favors."

"It's about Nessa."

"My daughter is leaving with us today. Forget your favor."

"I'm not speaking for myself," Raviathan said. Claye paused again, listening though he didn't look up. "I've come on my wife's behalf. She would have come herself, but she's still new to the alienage. You've seen her stand at Alarith's? Well, she's been getting a lot of orders, enough that she needs an assistant. I was thinking that since Nessa is family, she could apprentice under my wife."

"Apprentice?" Claye turned to him then.

Raviathan thought about mentioning Nessa's safety, but that would take away from his tactic of needing help for his wife. He'd save that if he needed to, but at this point one reason was stronger as a second would only be seen as having a cover for an ulterior motive. Right now, it was about assuaging Claye's need to be a strong father. "It would mean that she would have to stay here, with us. I know it's a burden on you, since she can't go with you, but we'd take care of her. As is, we have an extra bed. In a few years, she'd have a good trade." That alone was worth it to any father. Not only would she have a better chance at finding a good partner for marriage at a better dowry price, skills among elves was rare. Few elves would hesitate at such an offer. "I'm sorry to ask, but my wife really could use the help."

Claye sat back on his heels to consider. Without a word, he left the room. Raviathan followed him at a respectful distance, and when he saw Nessa helping her mother, he gave her a surreptitious wink. "Daughter, I've arranged for you to stay here." Beth and Nessa both looked up, Beth in complete surprise, Nessa trying not to let her relief show. "You're going to live with your cousin and apprentice with Nesiara."

"A-apprentice?" Now Nessa mirrored her mother.

"It will be good for you," Claye said. "You're going to help for the next few days while the soldiers ready for the march south. When we leave, you'll come back here."

"Y-yes father."

Raviathan shook Claye's hand to finalize the exchange. "Maker watch over you and safe journey."

"Maker watch over us all," Claye said as was the customary reply.

When he kissed Beth on the cheek in parting, she whispered, "Thank you."

He and Nessa exchanged secretive smiles as he left.

Back at the shop Alarith was reviewing Isa's bookkeeping. The deliveries for the day had already been made, and with two assistants, there was not much left for Raviathan to do. Gathering a few vegetables, Raviathan left for the day. He bought a squid from the fishmonger on the way home and found Nesiara working at the kitchen table. Raviathan left the groceries he brought for dinner at the cabinet then went to look over Nesiara's work. Locking the door was becoming a habit. "You're home early."

"Alarith didn't have much. By the way, you have an assistant." Raviathan explained about Nessa to his wife's slightly annoyed amusement. Hiding a grin at her look, Raviathan took a keen interest in her drawings. "What's this?"

Soft lips pressed against her hair, and without preamble, his hands slipped under her shift to fondle her breasts. She leaned back for a kiss, the two of them enjoying the sensuous fullness of kissing each other's bottom lip. "I'm working on a few sketches," Nesiara said, her voice deepened by the angle of her neck. His hands left their tender invasion to undo her dress. "My love, don't you ever get enough?"

"Not from you. Do you want to stop?"

The best part of having the apartment to themselves in the afternoon was that she didn't have to worry about being loud. In the evening she either had to muffle her voice in the pillow, or he would cover her mouth with his own or his hand. While she had a perverse love of needing to be silenced, she reveled in being wild with him. There was nothing between them but pleasure. No judgment, no shame, just feeding their desires.

Firmly taking his hands away from her dress, she stood. She could feel his quiet sigh behind her, a sign that he was going to regretfully leave her alone if that were her wish. As if that had ever been her wish. He couldn't see her sly smile as she left for the ladder. Only when she turned, the top of her dress undone, enough to show the top mounds of her breasts barely covered by her shift, did his eyes start to glow with the heat they had only for her. He rushed her, and she had to scramble to get up the ladder when his hands were there on her thighs. With a groan he shifted her dress so his lips could climb up the inside of her thigh. All at once the pleasant buzz in her groin was becoming an ache from the touch of his mouth.

She giggled and hopped the rest of the way up intent on teasing him by giving chase. She forgot how quick he was. With his own practiced hop he was up and grabbing for her. She spun away and raced for the bed with him close behind. As they reached their bed he clutched her skirt and pulled her clothes off with an easy motion leaving her clad only in her small clothes. The simple woolen dress fell to the floor, and his lips were pressed hungrily against her neck. "Oh no," she said though she was melting. "You have to undress too." She pulled away from him and slipped under the blankets.

With a groan Raviathan pulled off his shirt then started to fiddle with his pants lacings. "You tease," he accused as his eyes went dark and shining. She giggled and let a long leg show but kept the blanket pulled up to cover part her breasts. His clothes were left crumpled on the floor, but he stopped to look at her partially covered by the blanket. His eyes fell to her breast, the small pink nipple erect.

His patience gone, he pulled the blanket off with a quick jerk leaving her exposed. With the taunt grace of a predator, he slowly leaned to tease her, his mouth doing wonderful things to her body. She nearly came from his teasing mouth. Nearly. She moaned writhing on the bed as her ache became a torment. Just… just a little. A few strokes and she'd be done.

His beautiful mouth left her. Her wet skin cooled as the light draft caressed where his mouth had been. The cool air of the room was like a teasing hand between her open legs. She opened her eyes to see him balanced over her. He was watching her with eyes as dark and deep as the ocean. What was he waiting for? He caressed her face then leaned down to plant a butterfly light kiss on her neck. His lips grazed up her neck to her earlobe, the slide of their skin like the caress of silk. Her legs wrapped over his hips to pull him closer, feel his hardness press into her heat. He whispered in her ear, "I love you, Ness," and entered.

She cried out unable to help herself. He felt so wonderful. Pleasure tightened her body making her twist as she cried out each time he moved. She wasn't orgasming though. The need kept growing without release. She writhed wondering if she could take any more. The pleasure kept building until her pelvis seemed to contain a pure white fire. It spread down her thighs and up into her belly. She wailed and clutched at him. It kept building and building until she was lost. She felt it as the fire moved up to her nipples, so sensitive now and turning her longing into greater agony, then continue up. She was going to burn with all this energy inside her. She would glory in it. The fire, white as burning stars, filled her completely, every pore, every tip from her toes and fingers to her ears. She could feel it ripple along her scalp. All at once her body crashed and was turned into nothing. She hovered in ecstasy. All she knew was a warm infinity of pure white bliss.

~o~O~o~

Nesiara blinked weakly as she slowly woke. It took her a minute to figure out the heaviness of her body was actually her husband. He was still asleep collapsed half on her and half by her side. Her arm was numb from being trapped under his body. What in the Maker's name had happened? Even the older women, when they swapped stories not realizing they were being eavesdropped upon, never described anything close to that.

First step was to free her arm. She gently pushed Raviathan off so he was on his back and her arm was freed. He murmured sleepily, his arm moving reflexively to hold her. She smiled. They were both still enamored with sleeping together. Just the act of sleeping together entailed an intimacy far beyond sex. Her sister had told her how strange and wonderful that was after she was married. Sex could be intimate or not, but sleeping with someone always was, as if their souls were bound in sleep. Her mother had sat her down the night before she travelled to Denerim and given her some last words of advice that were always passed down between women, mother to daughter, for generations. The intimacies beyond sex had been one of them.

He was so cute when he was asleep. He was sexy and gorgeous when he was awake. She pulled up the blankets only then realizing how cold they both were and lay half on him in a reversal of their first position then snuggled in to the sure strength of his body. He was sexy and gorgeous asleep too. She settled her head on his chest to hear his heartbeat and gaze at his hand in hers. He had such beautiful hands. She kissed his fingertips admiring their length and the elegance of his prominent wrist bone. He took good care of his hands. Neat, trim nails and supple aloe scented skin. His voice was still heavy with sleep when he murmured, "Ness? You okay?"

"Yeah." She was after all. She felt boneless.

His arm rubbed her back, and he checked to make sure the blankets were covering them before his head fell back. Raviathan said groggily, "That… I don't even have words for."

She clung tighter to him. "I didn't know it could be like that."

"You felt the same?"

"Like fire grew inside until it was everywhere. Then white. Maker's breath."

"Huh," he said. "I think that means we're going to have an interesting marriage."

She stroked his shoulder as pins and needles started in her arm. She shook it to get the blood to flow faster. "You fell asleep on my arm," she said to answer his silent question. "That's never happened to you before?"

He shook his head. "Never fell asleep on someone's arm before." She tisked at him. He grinned stroking her back. "Never to the other part too."

"Is that normal?"

"Don't know sweet, Ness. I'd say don't worry about it."

"But I've never heard of this from anyone."

"Agreed," he said calmly. "It was strange, but it didn't hurt. We're fine."

She raised up enough to look at him. "How can you be so relaxed?"

He grinned at her, and she slapped his shoulder playfully. He reached around to hold her close and kiss her temple. "Well, who would you ask? Your family? My father? Not a conversation that I'd relish."

"Hmm. What about your friends?"

"If anything like that happened, I'd have heard about it already." Raviathan looked down briefly enjoying the way her breasts pressed against his chest. Her nipples were hidden but the mounds were pushed up making her look voluptuous. All the naked skin of her body pressed against him was a gift from the Maker. His arms stretched around her waist loving the secretive strokes of their thighs.

"But we're not talking," she said smiling. She felt completely irresistible around him. She squished her breasts against his chest a little tighter enjoying the darkening look in his eyes. "Maybe this is more common than we know because no one says anything."

"Possible, but of all the conversations I have with my friends, this isn't one of them."

She giggled resting her legs on either side of him. "So what do you talk about?"

His hands lowered from her waist to cup her buttocks. He stroked her and squeezed as she laughed looking down at him. "This and that."

She rose up letting him gaze at her naked body. His eyes turned dreamy as they roamed over her breasts and down. She stretched to show off. "This and that?"

Raviathan's voice grew husky as he took in her form. "Maker's breath Ness. You are beautiful." He stroked her lower abdomen, his thumb lowering to explore the heat between her sensitive lips. "I want to drink you in."

Luxuriating in his gaze, she leaned down slowly so her face was only inches away from his. She whispered, "I love you too."

His long fingers caressed her pale blonde hair behind a pointed ear as he raised up to kiss her. He held her as he twisted so she was on her back and made love in the languorous afternoon.

For the first time in his life, Raviathan felt like things were coming together. He had made mistakes, but everyone had at some point or another. He stretched enjoying the pull of his muscles and sense of fresh life that washed through him then started to dress. In time he'd be just another elf in the alienage. No one to hate or look down on, his past finally allowed to drift into the past. He'd have his family, be part of the community like everyone else.

"And you call me a tease," Nesiara said admiring him.

He chuckled and turned to her. She was so soft—clean and sweet. "Sugar and spice and all things nice."

"Hmm?"

"Just thinking about you my love." He kissed her temple. "I'm going to get dinner started."

"Then I suppose I should dress too. Father won't be as indulgent of my eating in bed."  
Loose and happier than he ever remembered being, Raviathan built up the fire then shaped the dough that had been rising since the morning. He set it in the side panel of the oven then boiled barley and put the chopped potatoes and three garlic cloves in boiling water. Garlic and onions were prized in winter to ward off illness, and Raviathan liked the mild taste of garlic boiled and mashed with the potatoes. Next he cleaned, chopped, and started the vegetables to cook, then went to work on the squid. The innards, cartilage, and beak were thrown out the window to the alley below. It fed the elven livestock, more commonly known as rats, that would be food for many in the lean months. He carefully set the intact ink sac aside for Nesiara's projects then washed the remaining tube and tentacles.

It was amazing how finicky shems were. They turned their noses up at some of the best food, oily little fishes like anchovies and mackerel or wonderful foods like sea urchin and squid. Picky bastards. Rich and creamy goat brains or the fine texture of tender beef heart were lost on them. It made Raviathan wonder at the foods they did serve. What they saved for themselves must be spectacular. The tentacles he would batter and fry; the tube would be stuffed with vegetables, mushrooms, and the seasoned barley. Raviathan took out the small loaf of bread, sliced it, and set it by the window in hopes that it would cool in time for dinner.

"I still don't understand how your bread turns out so even," Nesiara said, her nose up to catch the comforting scent that spoke of family.

"If you learn all my secrets now you'll get bored of me," he said playfully, but became serious when Nesiara gave a derisive snort and went back to her work. Where had this attitude of hers come from? The potatoes were done, so he mashed them with salt, pepper, and cream. Raviathan nibbled his lip then asked, "Tell me another story?"

"No," Nesiara said giving him a pointed look. "You'll get bored of me."

Raviathan huffed. "Ness, what are you expecting? That we keep a fire salamander trapped in there?"

"Rav, I've used a forge, kiln, and on rare occasions our old stove. I know how to make glass and crystal, how to fire a vase. I know about fire and consistency. You can't fool me on this one."

He sighed and turned back to cooking. The batter was a pale cream that reddened slightly with paprika. Floured and battered, the tentacles sizzled in the hot pan next to the stuffed squid tube which he kept turning so it would cook evenly. His father had said not to tell her, but that just wasn't realistic, Raviathan thought. When? When did the betrayal of silence outweigh the developing bonds of their marriage?

At his silence, Nesiara went back to her sketching. It was frustrating not to have access to the instruments she had taken for granted in her home. She had a perfect design for bowls and vases that would look like spiraled fern leaves, but there was no way to make them. It could be months or even years before she could rent a kiln let alone buy one. All the excitement she had for creating those vases had nowhere to go, so it stagnated inside her.

Raviathan filled three plates leaving his father's portion on the cabinet. Nesiara gathered her things to store on the empty chair. She missed having a work station too. "Should we wait for father?"

"Normally he's back by now," Raviathan said. "Every once in a while he has to stay late at the estate."

"The gates have closed."

"I'll give his portion to Trean if he doesn't show up."

After Nesiara said grace, they ate. She couldn't stifle the little moan of pleasure at his food. When he gave her a tentative smile, she reached over and squeezed his hand. "I just wish I had a kiln. I'm letting it get to me. I didn't mean to take it out on you."

"Then that's what we'll work on."

She squeezed his hand again now able to return the smile. Showing him the sketches of the fern bowl and vase, she said, "I just have all of these ideas. I want to do a series based on this. Teacups, plates." She had many sketches, some of organic undulating leaves, others more traditional with delicate swirls of paint. One of the cup designs had a leaf as a handle.

"Well, I have no idea when we'll be able to get a kiln. What kind of crafts can you make without one?"

The silence stretched as she contemplated. "If I could get some wire and stones, I could make jewelry. A spiraled fern leaf holding a stone?"

"That sounds beautiful," Raviathan said giving her an encouraging smile. She sketched with one hand as they ate, Raviathan watching in fascination. In one sketch, two fern leaves formed a love heart with a stone in the center. "That one is my favorite. Re-creation and love. What are you going to make it out of?"

"Copper with a red stone seems appropriate. I was thinking a set of silver and green for these earrings."

If she hadn't already given him a wedding gift, he would have asked for the heart fern. It was a feminine bit of jewelry, but it was everything he wanted—to be recreated. It was the redemption she gave him freely not even knowing that she did that for him. It was in the warmth of her smile, the heat of her body, in her love he felt free.

Something of his thoughts must of shown because she took his hand and squeezed it. "Husband?"

He kissed her hand, rough and divine, the hand of a creator. "I love everything about you Ness. You'll never know what you mean to me." No secrets between us.

Raviathan was about to speak when Cyrion walked in. The elder elf's shoulders were slumped in defeat, his head down. Raviathan couldn't even guess what his father's day had been like. His father would either share or not but it was likely he would want to put whatever unpleasantness that had happened into the past. Raviathan gathered the two empty plates to put in the wash bucket. "Dinner's ready for you father."

Cyrion sat down with a heavy thump, and Raviathan realized it was more serious than he thought when Nesiara straightened. "Son," Cyrion's voice cracked. "Is it true a girl came here for medical advice two weeks ago?"

A knot of dread clenched Raviathan's stomach. So his father truly hadn't know he was practicing medicine in secret. Raviathan sat with his head lowered. "She wanted an abortion."

"An abortion." Anger and disappointment deepened the craggy lines of Cyrion's face as he looked at his son. That his father had always been patient made the whole situation that much worse. Raviathan clutched his hands under the table all the more ashamed that his was happening in front of his wife. "And how did she find out about you?"

Raviathan looked at his hands unable to keep his father's gaze. "One of the servants at the estate. Her brother had pneumonia."

Cyrion placed on hand on the table and leaned forward. "A servant. And it's outside the alienage. A stranger came to you." Cyrion's voice trembled faintly. "This… this is what happened to Solyn. It takes just one misplaced word. Just a rumor."

"Father, I…" Raviathan began.

"No! I will not hear of it!" Cyrion slammed his fist on the table. Nesiara and Raviathan both jumped at the elder elf's outburst. Raviathan squirmed, the heavy feeling in his stomach growing. "I knew… you were still… but this? Do you have any concept of how bad this is? That it's outside the alienage?"

Raviathan could not remember the last time his father had been angry. "I only wanted to help."

The long, torturous ticking of minutes passed in silence as Cyrion stared at him. "These last years… you've been in defiance of me. That you let it go this far. You've betrayed my trust in you, Rav. I don't even know what to say to you anymore."

Raviathan's shoulders bunched together in a tight ache. "I'm sorry."

Cyrion slumped back in a chair as if the world were too much to bare and covered his face with his hands. "Son," he said sadly, "it takes so little. I know you. You want to help everyone. Just like Solyn. But I'm trying to save you from her fate. If you continue to do this, one day the wrong person will hear about you. One day some elf might say something, out of anger or grief, and they'll come after you. All it takes if for someone to overhear a conversation. If you…disappeared……"

Bowing his head low, Raviathan reached under the table to take one of Nesiara's hands in both of his own. Her chest ached for wanting to hold him and kiss away all his troubles.

Both of Cyrion's arms fell on the table, and he sagged dispiritedly. "Son," Cyrion's voice cracked, "why would you disobey me?" Raviathan was squeezing her hand painfully tight, but she didn't stop him. "After… after all we've lost. I never thought I would be this disappointed in you. There were times when…." Cyrion trailed off unable to speak aloud the troubles that had kept him from sleep for years.

"I'm sorry, father," Raviathan whispered.

Cyrion looked at him for a long time, tired and measuring. "We will speak more of this later."

"Yes, father," Raviathan said releasing Nesiara's hand so he could go up to the second floor.

She watched him go feeling tight with a shame that wasn't hers. "Father," she said quietly. Cyrion turned in her direction but did not lift his head. "I'm sorry." She wanted to say more, ease his pain, tell him he had a good son he should be proud of. Her husband was a good man. There was no reason for him to be shamed.

The elder looked every year his age. "Go to bed. Get some sleep."

Nesiara bit her lip in consideration. She had seen her husband do so much good in the last month. The elves here needed him, and he was talented. The templars were guardians against outlaw magic, and Raviathan wasn't a mage. It wasn't fair that they should fear templars. "Yes father. Good night."

"Good night, Ness."

She left and could just make out Raviathan's shadow behind the sheet as he got into bed. There was little moonlight but she could see he was wearing sleeping clothes. This would be the first night they didn't make love and sleep in just their skin. It was bound to happen eventually. She sighed quietly and dressed for bed wondering how he would react to some sympathy. So far he hadn't even acknowledged she was in the room though Nesiara knew that he was aware of her. She slipped into the bed next to him. His back was to her with just a faint bit of moonlight on his shoulder in the shadow filled room. She wanted to touch him but said in a soft whisper, "I'm sorry Rav. It's not fair when you do so much good."

He said quietly, "Thanks, Ness. But I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay sweetheart." Instead of trying to talk him out of the mood, she snuggled up to his back and held him. After a few minutes he laid his hand over hers. "I love you, Rav. I think you're the best man I've ever known."

He sniffed and squeezed her hand.


	11. Married Life – Job Hunt

The next morning Nesiara woke alone. It was just before dawn, and she was still getting use to her husband's early rising routine. So far that had been the only habit of his she couldn't fathom. There was just something wrong about people who liked to wake early. The memory of the night before caused her to hesitate before she rolled out of bed. It wasn't her place to question her new father, any parent for that matter, but she thought it was unfair and undeserved. Elves needed more people like him, not less. He shouldn't be intimidated out of using such a necessary skill. As she dressed she made up her mind to talk to Valendrian. They needed to stand up as a community and be allowed the luxury of a healer that any human would have access to. She descended the latter to find both men quietly eating a simple breakfast of boiled oats, an egg each, and tea. Her chest tightened when she saw her husband's head still bent low. "So," she said into the silence as she took her place, "I'll be going with you to Alarith's this morning. I need some extra fabric for our wedding clothes."

"I won't be there for long," Raviathan said keeping his eyes on his breakfast.

"Oh?" That was unexpected. Deliveries?

Cyrion added, "He'll be going out with Soris to find a regular job."

"Oh." Nesiara picked at her food. It had been wonderful to get to know each other the last month. She was going to miss having time with him, teasing and talking. And making love. She bent over her oats eating slowly. Now that she was here he had less reason to take care of the day to day chores. She had expected another month at least. Still, she could talk to Valendrian. A healer was too vital. The three ate in silence and left the home just as quietly.

When Cyrion turned down the main road, Nesiara took her husband's hand. "You do the Maker's work, my love. I'll always be proud of you." Raviathan squeezed her hand but said nothing.

Isa was behind the counter at Alarith's shop. The young elf fidgeted as she listened to him, her too knowing eyes hard with ugly memories. "Be careful who you work for. Braden is well connected."

There was no way for him to know who was under the noble's influence. Saying so would only worry Nesiara more, so Raviathan nodded. "How are you feeling?" he asked to deflect any other advice.

"I'm okay. Getting used to things here. I liked having you teach me. You're a lot more patient than Alarith."

Raviathan gave her a quick smile but said nothing.

"Hey, cousin," Soris called when he came in to pick up his lunch. He gave Isa and Nesiara a nod then covered a wide yawn.

After giving his wife a last kiss, Raviathan followed Soris out the door. It wasn't until Soris and Raviathan left the shop that Raviathan explained his father's decision. "I expect he talked to Valendrian before he went to work," Raviathan said low so the other elves leaving for work would not overhear them. "To make sure Valendrian enforces his decision."

"I'm not sure everyone is going to listen to Valendrian though. If one of the children is sick, Venri wouldn't give a damn what Valendrian says."

Though Raviathan had clashed with the orphanage matron on occasion, he rather liked the pragmatic woman. She was harassed and tired, but she also took no nonsense when it came to her charges. "Well, it's not my problem anymore."

Soris gave his cousin a sidelong look. "Uh-huh."

Raviathan sighed. "I don't know what to say, cousin. I've disappointed my father so much in the past."

"You make him proud, too." Soris put an arm around his cousin's shoulders. "He has a right to be worried, and that's all this is."

When they neared the gates, they stepped apart to mimic the human patterns of behavior. For some elves, it was as automatic as putting on a coat when they left their home, but for Raviathan and Soris, it was a reminder that they were stepping into unprotected territory. "So, any leads?"

"None," Soris said. "Work is tight. I almost signed up to go with the King's army, but Valora was worried. With some of the elves leaving, I was hoping there might be some openings, but so far nothing. I've searched the Market and west side. Now it's south."

They travelled in a circuit around the outside of the Market. If Soris wondered why Raviathan took the more circuitous route furthest away from the Chantry, he didn't say anything.

"So, how are you and Valora doing?"

Eyes downcast, Soris shrugged. "Alright I suppose. She's a nice person."

It was a less than ringing endorsement considering they were already a month into their handfasting. "Have you…?"

Soris's shoulders hunched, which was reply enough. "I… Maker's breath. I don't know what to do. I can see she's trying, but it's all awkward conversation. Or awkward silences. I just keep thinking… well… that we're supposed to, you know. And I know she's thinking that too. There's all this pressure, but I don't even know her."

"You only get to know her by talking."

"That's part of what makes it so awkward. I look at her, and I think this is it. The rest of my life. With her."

Raviathan had thought the exact same phrase, but their tones couldn't be any more different. "Have you tried something simple? Like holding her hand?"

"Yes, I've tried. Her hand was cold and limp. I felt like I was going to break it or bruise her or something."

"You know Soris, it was awkward for us too in the beginning."

Soris snorted. "That lasted for what? An hour?"

Two actually, but Raviathan couldn't say that. "The only difference is that we both kept pushing through it until it wasn't awkward anymore. It's like when we go swimming. You can try going inch by inch to get accustomed to the cold, or you jump in because once your head is under, you don't care that much."

"I think if I jumped in, she'd call the guards. Or I would. Agh. Can we just drop it? I know you're trying to help…"

"Sure, cousin." Raviathan wondered about his cousin as they made their way through the labyrinthine streets. Was courting Valora difficult because Soris was an orphan? The bonding of a family was tight, and there was no greater fear like being alone. An elf on their own, like Shianni or the orphans, invoked the greatest sense of pity in an alienage. When Raviathan reflected on his cousins' lack of family, he was reminded of just how lucky he was. Raviathan had often slept with his aunt when he had bad dreams or after his mother died. The two of them would practically sleeping on top of each other in her half of the bunk bed, but the sleep they had was sound. Especially after his mother's death, Solyn needed Raviathan's comfort as much as he needed hers. For a week after her death, the three remaining inhabitants of their apartment slept in the large bed together.

When Raviathan asked his aunt why their sleep was soothed by the presence of a loved one, Solyn had explained that their souls travelled together in the Fade, the realm of dreams. The elven affinity for magic made their Fade journey that much stronger for their race as a whole. Sleeping was the most intimate of interactions because you were binding yourself to another while your psyche was laid bare in the Fade. Sometimes the dreamers had the same dream, but that was rare. More often it was like the dreamers existed in different rooms in the same house, together and separate. An orphan rarely had the experience of Fade binding. They were neglected children who never learned proper social interaction.

There was only so much Venri could do. No matter how giving one woman could be, all those children grew up without learning the natural instincts for elves, instincts that family bonding could instill. Soris had told him that the orphans would cry in the night. Many paired up to sleep though that was discouraged as they aged, which Raviathan found heartbreaking even though he understood the reason. Those children were starved for love. Raviathan was going to miss playing with them and telling stories. It felt like he was taking bread away from an emaciated beggar.

They had to double back out of a dead end, both watching for gangs. Denerim was an easy city to get lost in. An arch could be the entrance to a courtyard of a noble, a relic of a building that either continued to another street or a dead end, or a marker of a district. The complex city gave gangs an advantage, and two elves were easy if petty prey.

Back on a main street, Soris spoke again. "Did I tell you? Shianni is going to let us live with her once we're married."

Raviathan squeezed Soris's shoulder. "That's good news. It'll take some of the pressure off." If they were in the alienage, Raviathan would have left his arm around his cousin's shoulders. One glance at the cold shems with their flat eyes was reminder enough. It was like Soris and Raviathan were in another country, or even a separate realm, like the Fade where all the rules were different. At least in the Fade, Raviathan had a handle on the rules.

"So," Soris said when they came to a neighborhood square. "How about you take left, I'll go right, and we meet in the middle?"

"Just go shop to shop and ask them if they have any positions open?"

"Pretty much. Let me tell you, hearing about a hundred 'no's in a row is pretty depressing. Don't let it get to you. What Valendrian said was that even if you get a thousand 'no's, all you need is one yes."

Squaring his shoulders for the task ahead, Raviathan nodded. The two parted, and Raviathan entered the first small shop on the left, a small tailor's shop. A bell sounded when Raviathan pushed open the door, and a tiny wizened human came out from the back. His hair was white, and he wore a smart outfit with bands around his arms to keep the fabric away from his work. "I'm looking for work," Raviathan started.

"No," the man said turning back to the small room.

"I know how to sew. I can mend…"

"Said no. Be on your way."

No number one, Raviathan thought as he left the store. Nine hundred and ninety nine more to go.

~o~O~o~

Nesiara left the store with an earthen brown silk swatch that would compliment her husband's skin tone. Spying Valendrian in the square, she hurried over to him. "Hahren. I need a word with you."

A bakery vendor was setting up his stall, and elves passed by on their way to work. The aged elf put an arm around her shoulders. "Not here," he said leading her to his home on the other side of the square.

Considering he had no family, Nesiara was surprised by the opulence of his home. Two whole rooms for one elf, and it was so well furnished. Even proper carpets made of minuscule, time consuming knot work, not the corded rags of her own home. "Have a seat, young one."

Valendrian set bread, a jar of preserves, and tea before her, customary for a guest. "Thank you, hahren."

"Now." Valendrian sat with her. "This is about Raviathan."

Nesiara nodded, her eyes roaming over the large interior. "Yes, hahren." She shook herself. "Ser, would you talk to father about letting Rav practice medicine? I…"

Valendrian took her hand between his own, his aged skin like warm parchment, dry and fine. Arthritis knotted his knuckles. "Youngin, before you go on, I understand. We need someone with his skills. It's why I said nothing for years, and in doing so, betrayed a friend."

"Then why?"

"You didn't see what happened to her. Solyn was a capable woman. I suspect she had the same training her sister did. You know about Adaia? Who she was and how she died?" Nesiara nodded. Shianni had told her how Raviathan's mother had died. A group of violent shems came to the alienage. They were stronger. They had weapons. The elves had nothing except one woman who would fight back and was mortally wounded in the process. Valendrian rubbed Nesiara's hand as he turned inward in memory. "You have no idea the pain we all went through when Solyn disappeared. Ness, what I'm to say to you does not leave this house. Alarith doesn't need any more pain. Neither does Cyrion or Raviathan. Your word."

"Yes, hahren. I swear."

"You need to understand what's at stake. Otherwise I would not speak of it." Valendrian squeezed her hand, his head bowed. "She was a good woman. There were times I thought we were blessed by the Maker to have such a woman here." Valendrian raised his head, years of sorrow lining his aged face. "For weeks she was left in an alley hidden by garbage. Naked. Beaten to death, tortured, old blood down her legs. You can't imagine what it was like. Rav only found her because she started to rot in the summer heat. Ness, we all suffered when she was lost.

"Ask yourself if you're willing to lose your husband. Have him disappear one day. Before Solyn died, I would have said the needs of everyone outweigh some remote chance… but after? I've seen people in grief. It's all too easy for one heartbroken elf, too hurt to think beyond their pain… Solyn was alone, and her training just wasn't enough to protect her. I won't put Rav in that position. Can you understand that Ness?"  
Nesiara sipped her tea taking the time to consider. "Hahren, I respect you, and I respect my father. I can't help but feel this decision is a waste. If there's a danger, then we find ways to minimize it. What happened to his aunt is a tragedy, but I don't see why…"

Valendrian raised a hand for silence. "I have other reasons."

"Other reasons? Hahren…"

"Rumors and suspicions, nothing I can give voice to yet, but enough that I feel this is the correct course of action. At least for now." He rubbed his forehead, his creased lips pressed closed. "Ness, I understand your frustrations. I share them. One day I hope the alienage can have the healer it needs."

Nesiara clasped her hands under the table, worry tightening her chest. What could make her hahren fear so? "Is it serious?"

"A reason for caution. Ness, your husband is dear to me. This decision is for him. Be patient."

"Yes, hahren."

"If anything becomes serious, I'll let you know. For now, don't let shadows trouble you. I'd rather be overly cautious than wrong."

"Thank you, hahren." Nesiara kissed his cheek in parting. Though comforted by Valendrian's precautions, Nesiara wondered what danger her husband could be in. Both his mother and aunt died in violent attacks. Could it have something to do with Adaia being a bard? Spy and thief, she must have made enemies. If Solyn had the same training, could both their deaths actually have been assassinations rather than random murders? It seemed clear that in Solyn's case it was deliberate. Did Rav know why? He was so certain it had been templars. Did Solyn do something to upset the Chantry? Nesiara clutched the wrapped fabric to her chest. That didn't explain why becoming a healer would be dangerous for her husband.

"Hey, cousin," Shianni said. "Didn't you hear me?"

"What? Oh, sorry. I guess I was lost in thought," Nesiara said and tried to smile.

Shianni laughed to her confusion. "You and Rav are quite the pair. He gets like that all the time. I'll be screaming bloody murder, and he'll look up, 'huh? Did you say something?'" Shianni linked her arm with Nesiara viewing the package with interest. "Is that the new fabric?"

"Yes."

"Oh good. Valora is coming over to my place, so we can work on these." Shianni glanced around to make sure no one was in ear shot. "I got a bottle of wine," she whispered. "We can make a party of it."

It wasn't even noon yet. Nesiara shook her head awed by Shianni's endless stomach. Her cousin's bright mood was infectious, and Nesiara let thoughts of intrigue go. Valendrian was looking out for them, and if there was something serious, her husband would tell her.

~o~O~o~

"Get out you thieving knife ears. We've got no work for your kind."

"But I know how to cook," Raviathan said following the great human around a bann's kitchen. The man stank of alcohol, and large stains from sweat and grease covered his clothes. Working for a drunk carried a host of problems, and Raviathan knew he'd be dodging fists on bad days. "My grandmother cooked for a lord and taught me everything. I can make breads, desserts, and I know six basic sauce types. I'm fast too. Give me a carrot and tell me how you want it…"

The human rounded on him, his red face turning purple, the broken capillaries on his nose ready to burst. "I said no! I'm sick to death of you bloody knife ears dirtying up my kitchen! Out!"

Depressing wasn't the word for it. The shadows cast by the buildings were growing long, and Raviathan felt miserable as he left the back door of the estate.

At the end of the first day, Soris and Raviathan had returned home in defeat. After another week of looking, Soris had found work in the carpenter's hall. The job was little more than cleaning and serving the craft masters and their journeymen, but at least it was solid work. Raviathan was glad for his cousin as Soris didn't have a family to help supplement his income. Searching for work without his cousin for moral support was a much tougher grind though.

Even when there was work available, Raviathan had yet to find a place that would hire an elf. He had begged at the book stores and music shops he had come across until the owners threatened to call the guards. One owner had taken a swipe at his head with a lute case. The rejections were all the worse because he had the skills for that kind of work. More than any other child in the alienage, he had spent most of his life training.

Denerim wasn't the same city it had been weeks ago. With the lords off to war, many elven servants found themselves out of work. Grand estates stood dark and empty, locked up with a minimal guard. Once the nobles returned, floors would need sweeping, banquets cooked, sheets washed, piss bowels emptied, and all the hundreds of other jobs fit for lowly knife ears. Elves were the most expendable, the first to go. With rising food costs, faces in the alienage were getting leaner. Luckily, his father had been with Bann Rodolf long enough that his job was secure.

More than the lack of work, half the guards had left with the soldiers. Since Raviathan had rarely left the alienage before, he didn't notice much of a difference, but the other elves never left alone anymore. He wasn't sure how much of that was paranoia, but there were more bruises and black eyes around the alienage. Paranoia or not, he made Nesiara promise not to leave the alienage without Alarith as her escort. As his mother would say, there was daring, and there was stupid. Taking precautions never hurt.

Outside the of the estate's high walled courtyard, the wind picked up. Raviathan hunched against the cold that whipped around him and chapped his ears. Time to go back to the alienage anyway. Raviathan left the estates along south side the river, the wind creating a low howl along the stone walls of the canal. Home wasn't much warmer lately. His father had said little during the last week, and dinner was tense despite Nesiara's attempts to liven conversation. Raviathan wondered if there ever going to be a time when he didn't have to hide or feel shame. At least with his wife he never felt that way.

Thoughts of Nesiara lifted his mood as he trotted through the streets. Every day he returned home heart sick, the incessant rejections and slurs making him feel like a failure. She would greet him, but he would not say a word. Instead, Raviathan went to her, buried his face in her sweet smelling hair, felt her soft curves press against him. He would linger there and let the chaos and weight drain away as her warmth revived him. Nesiara held him, and in their quiet embrace, his peace would return.

Nessa was still settling in, and Raviathan got the impression that her own home had been a quiet one. Having known him since childhood, Nessa was surprised by Raviathan's silence, but he simply didn't feel like talking lately. It was enough to be home and listen to his wife. He enjoyed hearing about her day, the crafts she was planning, or what gossip she had about the elves. Just being with her was calming. He would hold her hand under the table, thankful for her presence. Raviathan knew Nesiara was worried by his silence. When they went to bed in the evening, he would speak to her without words, show her the love he held for her alone.

A blurry lunge, and jaws snapped a foot away from Raviathan's face. Raviathan jerked back, his heart racing. The ragged dog snarled and snapped, straining at the length of his chain. The shem holding the dog laughed displaying yellow teeth that stuck out in all directions. Strong arms grasped Raviathan when he bumped into the shem behind him. The dog yowled, lunging for him again. Raviathan flinched, wrenching as far away as he could in his trap.

"Something about knife ears he just hates," the man holding the dog said. His arms jerked each time the dog launched himself, each snap coming that much closer. The dog, a scrawny, blue grey deerhound, started to choke but did not relent. The chain rattled and snapped taut when he lunged again, his forelegs off the ground. His fur was gone where the chain had rubbed it off, his skin raw underneath. Raviathan's heart beat wildly, his bowels clenched. Though shocked by the dog's attack, Raviathan couldn't help but feel pity for the crazed animal. "He'd take off that pretty face, he would. Whew, would you just look at him." The dog gagged, slobber and a trail of green vomit dripping from the howling animal.

"Let me go." Raviathan flinched again when the dog backed up and lunged forward. Struggle as he might, the thick shem behind him had him in an iron grip. "I don't have any money."

"Your kind never does," the shem holding him said. Just the shem's massive forearms, straining at the cloth of his shirt, were larger than Raviathan's thighs.

"Heh, look at him. 'Bout ready to piss himself, he is."

Raviathan caught the eye to two elves on the other end of the street staring at the scene. They hunched, their heads down, and hurried away. Not that he expected them to intervene. Three elves against two humans and a dog wasn't a fair fight, but they didn't even shout for help. Raviathan's disgust for them matched his own for not paying attention. His mother had taught him better.

"Now look here, sweetling," the dog owner said. "We just want a bit of fun. You can do that now, can't you, lovey."

The dog lunged again, this time the chain jerking him by the neck so he spun in mid air. Poor dog. Poor bloody, starved, and abused dog. Raviathan hated the crunch the dog's leg made when he slammed his foot down. The ulna and radius, the long bones of the dog's forelimb, snapped clean. Raviathan didn't have a choice. There was no way he could out run it. The dog yowled a high, thin note, and Raviathan felt sick.

"What…?"

Raviathan tried to kick the instep of the shem holding him. He got a glancing blow, maybe causing a bruise but not enough damage. The shem's hands tightened painfully, partially lifting him off the ground. The dog was howling, his jaws snapping rapidly. Raviathan just got his ankles out of the way then kicked the dog in the head, smashing the animal's head into the stone street.

The ugly shem was before him, arm raised to backhand him. Raviathan kicked out again. This time he felt no disgust when the shem's knee shattered under his foot. The shem fell over his dog and onto his back, clutching his knee and screaming.

Raviathan was whirled around, and for the first time got a look at his assailant. What...? For a moment Raviathan froze in shock. The shem… had a horn. A thick, ridged horn grew out of his left temple. At first Raviathan thought it had to be a helmet, and he just wasn't seeing clearly. Some shems decorated their helmets so. He'd seen that on the dwarven made helmets sold in the Market. It couldn't be. This shem had a horn. The other one looked like it had been sawed off. Ragged horn bits clung around the outside and faded saw marks scarred the flat interior. What shem had horns? The shem had purple eyes and grayish bronze skin, and Maker he was huge, bigger than any shem Raviathan had seen before.

Raviathan barely had time to duck the first blow. The giant shem had him by one arm still, his other hand balled into a fist and pulling back for a second punch. Maker help me! The shem was huge and pissed, his face twisted in a snarl. The giant was taking his time, wanting to make his captive fear the blow before it hit. This shem's reach was far greater than Raviathan's. No kicks would work this time, but with one arm free, Raviathan pulled out the small kitchen knife he carried in his boot. He stabbed the strange shem in the wrist. The giant might be twice Raviathan's size, but the fine veins and arteries in his wrist were just as vulnerable.

The giant's fingers immediately went slack. The blow was already headed for his face, but Raviathan dodged it easily now that he was free. The ugly shem on the ground made a feeble reach for Raviathan's ankle as he sped away. For a split second Raviathan thought about stomping on the shem's hand to break more bones, but he just wanted to get away.

Raviathan raced down the street with the bellows of the two shems following him. A heavy, red headed human walked around the corner, and Raviathan pushed against him to shift his momentum. "Here now, what?" the man called out as he stumbled back. Raviathan took no noticed as he sped down the street.

The metallic clank of armor sounded from around the next corner, and Raviathan ducked behind the high stoop of a building. Three guards jogged down the street, oblivious to the hiding elf. One shouted at the red head, "You there. Did you see a few men attacking an elf?"

The red head's voice was surprisingly high for his size. "Them's the humans over there, I think. Elf headed south way down the street. 'Fraid I didn't get a good look at him." When the guards continued on, the red head gave Raviathan a wink. Raviathan grinned back and gave a small wave of thanks. Maybe there was one human in Thedas he didn't hate. That, and the two elves had called the guards for him. Raviathan gave thanks to the Maker and headed off.

Glad to be in the busier streets, Raviathan ran ducking and dodging around the shems. Luck had been on his side in that his attackers were unarmored and untrained. He couldn't afford to be so unaware.

"Rav!"

He turned at the sound of his name and saw the two elves who had called the guards. Relief now that he wasn't alone, Raviathan jogged over and hugged them.

"Maker's breath you had us scared." Giles, a raw boned man with a narrow face, embraced him.

"How did you get away?" Curran asked.

"Had a knife on me."

"Just a knife? Against… them?" Curran shook his head in shock. "In the Maker's name. Why would you be out here by yourself? You know it's not safe."

"Looking for work," Raviathan said. The three hurried, eager to be home before the gates closed.

"No reason to risk yourself," Curran said, his arm over Raviathan's shoulders. Raviathan still felt shaky on the inside, and he was grateful for the presence of his fellows.

"What are you two doing south anyway?" Raviathan asked. Giles and Curran were dock workers and rarely came to the south part of the city.

"Send off a message," Giles said. "Anise wants her mother here when she delivers. Amaranthine is three days away, and she's getting close to due."

Raviathan nodded in understanding. This was their first child, and delivery was easier with family around.

"You honestly looking for work, Rav?" Curran asked.

"Wouldn't be out here otherwise."

Curran and Giles exchanged looks. Curran said, "Alorn told me what Valendrian said. You ah, certain though?"

Habit kept everyone from saying 'healer' out loud. At Raviathan's silence, the two exchanged another look. Giles scratched the bridge of his nose and fidgeted. "Well, if you're determined, you can stand the stone with us tomorrow." Dock workers lined up in the morning to be chosen for work. 'Stand the stone' as they called it.

"Work's tight," Curran said. "But we'll vouch for you. Teach you a couple things till you know the ropes."

So, he would be a dock worker after all. Raviathan thought back to the childish notions he had before he met Nesiara. He had wanted to be a docker in defiance of shems, his way of spitting at the world. Now he wanted a decent job to help support his family, to protect them from the brutality of the world. Anything to keep Nesiara's face from becoming gaunt like many of the other elves. Dock workers weren't paid much, and work was spotty. When, if, Nesiara ever became pregnant and couldn't work as she had, his contributions would be vital. Dock work wasn't enough, but right now there wasn't much else. "Thanks. I'd appreciate it."

Curran shook his shoulder. "Meet us at the gates when they open. No walking alone. Bring some money for gloves and a hat."

Maker's breath, Raviathan thought. Thankful as he was to the two men who were helping him, doubt crept into Raviathan. They were good men walking with him, but Raviathan couldn't help but feel Nesiara deserved better than a dock rat for a husband.

Raviathan thought of the sound the dog made when his leg was broken. The howl rang clear in his head, almost as if the dog was in front of him. The sound of breaking bone, his howl, and Raviathan felt sick again. Poor dog.

~o~O~o~

Unlike most of the dock workers, and maybe because he was still new, Raviathan liked the heavy scent of the sea. It cleared his lungs, reenergized his brain and muscles. He was coated with salt by the end of the day and in need of a wash, and his hands would crack without the aloe lotion nearly every day now, but still he enjoyed the work. Whatever the weather was, brisk winds blowing across the bay, sun turning from a warming caress to beating on his back, the drama of dark clouds of a coming storm, he loved it. For most of his childhood he worked out on an almost daily basis, exercise that he had missed when Nesiara came. Though the other dockers gave him some dark looks for being too enthusiastic in his work, especially when it came to moving crates, he missed the use of his muscles too much to care. While he liked the work, the shems were as bad as he expected.

"Hey there. Knife ears. How much longer?" The foreman appeared as a looming shadow against the bright glare of the sky.

Curran looked about the ship side from his perch on their shared descent chair. The descent chair was little more than a plank of wood and some ropes, enough that most dockers stayed away if they could help it. One look at Torries the beggar with his crushed legs was enough of a reminder every day the elven dockers left home. Accidents were common, though not that all injuries were all accidents. "'Bout another hour for this section," he called back to the foreman above.

After two steady weeks of unloading, the ship was empty and hauled partially up on the breakers in the shipyard. Cries from the regular mariners and craftsmen, the occasional song, and the pounding of repairs on the ship carried on as the workers readied the vessel before it could be loaded up again. This boat, a carrack called the Ship Kicker, had been besieged by Rivaini pirates on the way from Wycome, a Free Marches city near Antiva. Surviving more by luck, the Ship Kicker had limped into harbor, and her belabored seamen had immediately decided to get drunk for the next weeks as the dockers worked. Currently Raviathan was cleaning barnacles off the ship prow.

"Careful you don't break your scraper," Curran said. "Boss'll take it out of your pay."

Curran was married late, his father dying before a marriage was arranged, so he was nearly a decade older than Raviathan. His sandy brown hair was always mussed, and he had a homey face by elven standards, but there was great patience and kindness there. Raviathan watched him scrape another barnacle with expert efficiency then tried working at a different angle. "Better," Curran said looking over his work. "You're getting the hang of this quick."

"Thanks." Learning knots and loading practices had been far more interesting than Raviathan would have given credit a few weeks ago. The process of unloading cargo, especially balancing crates and using the cranes, was more skilled than he had thought it would be. Since humans were stronger, they often had to do the harder manual labor, something they complained bitterly about while elves often used the cranes. Though shems thought the elves had an easier time, the consequences for mistakes were much higher. Raviathan had already heard furtive stories whispered about men who were beaten, sometimes to death, for damaging cargo. There were few consequences if someone was accidentally hurt, but what constituted an accident was up to the foreman. After all, accidental beatings happened just as often as accidentally dropped cargo.

"Maker's breath, Rav. Of all people, I didn't think you'd go in for this."

"Couldn't find another job." Raviathan instantly regretted not thinking first. "Curran, I didn't mean…"

"Pusha. Ain't nothing," Curran said amicably. "You gots a learned family. Always thought you'd take after Solyn. Ready here. Let's put her down another foot."

Together the two of them carefully lowered the descent chair to clean off the next section. "You know how my father feels about that."

"Aye. Man's lost a lot, so I get it. Meaning no offense here, but you're going to be making your own life at some point."

Raviathan bit his lips. "The thing is, my father's right. People can be unpredictable. I've seen it for myself. Grief turns to anger, and when enough of that happens… Solyn died for it."

"You know for sure it was templars?" Curran asked casting a brief sideways glance at Raviathan.

"Yes."

"Shame for the alienage to lose a healer."

"I'd also be a shame for my family if I disappeared one day."

Curran snorted. "Docks aren't a trade up for safety."

Without warning, a thin trail of liquid fell just behind them startling both men. Realizing what it was, Raviathan jerked away sending the plank tilting forward. Curran cried out in panic as he started to fall between the plank and ship. He twisted desperately to clutch at the ropes, one foot braced against the sharp barnacles on the ship. The plank swung about, crashing against the side of the ship then sliding the other way. Curran was stretched out, his ridged body acting as a fulcrum. The descent chair tipped, and Curran cried out hoarsely, unable to get back to safety. Laughter erupted above them as the two elves scrambled, the wooden pilings below them looking only slightly friendlier than the stone dock.

One of the sailors watching them called to another, "See that? Aim's not worth for shit near land. Can't piss on a knife ear from fifteen feet. You owe me a silver or a whore."

Raviathan had one leg crooked securely over the planking, and a solid grip on the rope. He leaned out and got an arm around Curran's waist then hulled him up.

"Your whore's down there. Take your pick."

After Raviathan helped Curran get back on balance, he glared up at the two sailors who were grinning down at him, their exposed penises in hand.

"I'll take the pretty one." At the first sailor's smirk, heat flushed through Raviathan, his desire to fight making him uncomfortably aware of the blood pumping through his body.

"They all look the same from behind," the third said.

"'Ey, cock rider," the sailor above them said waving his penis at Raviathan. "Wanna go fer a turn on dis? Promise I von't buck too 'ard."

"Hey," the foreman yelled from further away. "They're working. Leave them alone. You want to screw a knife ear, there's plenty of brothels on land."

The sailors grumbled but moved away diligently enough. Raviathan glared up at the now empty bow. Fires take these shems. The foreman didn't even check to see if we're still alive, Raviathan thought darkly. He glanced over at Curran expecting to commiserate but was shocked to see the elf's hard glare directed at him.

Jaw clenched tight, Curran stared him down. "Rav. I have a wife. A son. The next time it's between my life and a shem pissing on you, let the fucking shem piss on you."

All the anger drained out of Raviathan. He was much more disturbed by Curran's anger than he was by the shems. They finished the work in silence save for Curran's brusque orders. When they finished, Curran went to the foreman for his next assignment, away from Raviathan.

Maker's blood. Out of all the gifts the Maker could bestow, Raviathan reflected that he had an extraordinary ability to piss people off without meaning to. "What's next, boss?"

"Over there," the foreman said indicating the cargo hold. "Help with the crane."

"Yes, ser." Raviathan joined the group of elves.

Five stories high, the crane was a marvel. Two elves ran inside a large wheel to raise and lower equipment and supplies. Three others were responsible for the pulleys that swung cargo to and from the ship. The trickiest part was balancing the platform. Raviathan was surprised he was to work with the complex machine. In the hierarchy of dockers, Raviathan was at the bottom, and crane workers were at the top.

When the lead elf eyed Raviathan, he explained, "Foreman sent me here."

"You've got good balance?" The lead elf's voice was nasal and high.

Is that why he was sent to help with the crane work? Had the foreman been watching? "Yeah."  
The lead elf pointed to the loading pit and gave Raviathan a long pole with a hook at one end. A few wooden boards were set near the pit. "Then you'll work guiding. As the equipment is lowered, you hook this around the rope and push or pull so the platform doesn't hit the sides as it goes down through the second and third decks."

"Yes, ser."

The lead elf grabbed Raviathan's arm, forcing him close. "Understand that if that cargo tips and drops, I ain't responsible for any accidents that happen to you. Got it?" Raviathan nodded, and the lead elf released him.

Raviathan watched the crane work in fascination. The elves in the wheel had to be traded out periodically when they became exhausted. When the new platform of wood was centered over the loading pit, Raviathan understood the directions. The crane wasn't completely accurate. He hooked the rope and pulled the cargo so that it could be cleanly lowered into the pit. The lead elf watched and issued orders, some shouted at the crane workers to lower or stop, some to Raviathan to steady his work.

Once the platform was down to the second deck, a few elves scooted a wooden board across the pit so Raviathan could stand on it. At the top, Raviathan could see down three decks of ship. The height was dizzying, but as long as Raviathan concentrated on steadying the platform, he could ignore the flutters in his stomach.

As the hours passed, and load after load was lowered in, Raviathan felt calm, happy even. He was getting the hang of the work, his boss was pleased, and Raviathan felt a sense of community with his fellow workers. Even if he didn't speak to them, they were all part of a greater mechanism. Each person had his job, and together, they were more than the individual elves. There was a place for each of them and a unity of purpose that bonded them. The hands that worked with Raviathan stretched back to the people who built the crane and ship, to the inventors and architects. In his work, Raviathan felt them all as a continuation.

As a healer, he had been a necessity, but the work was lonely. He had to remain separate in order to be objective. When he set a bone, he couldn't allow himself to feel the pain of his patient. When he delivered a child, after the first precious moments of holding a new, vibrant life, he had to give the babe up. Since his childhood, no matter how many people he called kin and friend, an invisible wall remained. Since the spring of his youth, Raviathan had been separated because of his lineage, his talents and training. As a dock worker, he was part of a community with his fellow elves.

The planking Raviathan stood on rattled. Raviathan's stomach somersaulted, and the three floors of decks below him seemed to spiral far away into six. He cried out and pin wheeled for balance.

"Knock that out," the foreman yelled. The two sailors who had been shaking the board laughed.

The lead elf glared at the sailors. "You butt pumping ass pirates! We're trying to work here, and you could have killed him."

The laughter stopped, and both sailors took a keen interest in the lead elf. "What did you call us?"

"And what if the cargo had fallen, huh? Prank your fuck buddy's ass if you have to, but leave us alone."

The two sailors were on the lead elf in an instant. One of them pulled off his knit cap, and yanked the elf's ear hard. He cried out, and Raviathan felt his own ear ache in sympathy. Raviathan used the pole to hook the sailor's leg and pulled. The sailor was half flipped, suspended in the air for a fraction of a second, then landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him. He wheezed in panicked grunts, clutching his chest.

The foreman marched up, his feet hitting the deck like a drum. "What the fuck is this all about?"

"Accident," the lead elf said. "He fell."

The foreman turned to Raviathan. "Slipped, ser."

The two elves stared at the two sailors, Raviathan gripping his pole in mute threat.

"I'll get him down below," the sailor said, and hauled up his mate.

The foreman glared at the two elves. "Watch it," he said quietly and left.

The lead elf winked at Raviathan, which he returned, and the elves went back to work. Raviathan smiled. At least here, he belonged.

When dusk started to settle, Raviathan and the rest of the elves started to make their way home before the gates closed. "Lazy knife ears. Why don't you stay on board to work like us?"

Raviathan muttered to his fellow, "Yeah. A couple of elves stuck on a ship all night with a bunch of horny shems. My idea of adventure." The two dockers near him chuckled. The human dockers, who could do long hour work by living on the vessel, did earn more money. They could occasionally be targets for the sailors, but the danger for them didn't compare to being an elf alone on the boat.

One of the sailors whistled at Raviathan. "Aye-ya, bella," he yelled in a thick Rivaini accent, his hand clutching his crotch. "Foda meu pau. Sugar-me bonita." Laughter erupted on the ship, and the sailors yelled jovially at the one on the bow. Whatever was said, he yelled back at them in good humor then pursed his lips to send kisses at Raviathan.

"I don't want to know," Raviathan said.

"No, you don't," Giles said catching up to him.

"Are all sailors this bad?"

Giles laughed. "Some are worse than others. This batch hasn't had port in a while, so they're randier than usual. The attack scared them, so… yeah. They're taking out their frustrations on everything they can. Also depends where they're from. Rivaini and Antiva are the worst. Tevinters usually hate the idea of screwing their own sex, so they'll be around the brothels as much as they can. Usually. Some funny ducks no matter where you go, so don't let your guard down thinking one's better than the other."

That was good advice in any situation. "How upset is Curran?"

Giles put an arm around Raviathan's shoulders. "He'll be fine. Give him a day and apologize."

Raviathan thought about his pay. Curran and Giles were the sole supporters for their families. Every coin they made went into food, rent, and clothes. With his pay, Raviathan was still trying to come up with a wedding gift. He felt spoiled walking next to Giles who could waste no money on that kind of luxury. But when Raviathan thought of Nesiara, he wondered if he would ever be able to honor her as she did him. What to get her?


	12. Married Life – Love’s Labor

"You won't believe what happened then." Shianni said as she and Nesiara strolled into Nesiara’s apartment. "The rats started…"

Nesiara cut her off. "Oh. You're home."

Raviathan hastily folded the paper he had been writing on and stored the writing materials in the cabinet. "No work until the cargo permits are straightened out."

Shianni and Nesiara exchanged glances. "So." Shianni affected a casual tone, but the higher register of her voice gave her away. "Alarith said you were pricing your instruments."

"Did he," Raviathan returned, his voice tight.

"Yes," Shianni said. "Said used instruments weren't worth much. Especially when there aren't many people who play."

"You're lying." Leveling an accusing gaze her way, Raviathan said, "Plenty of us know how to play. If you're going to lie, try and make up something believable."

"My love." Nesiara wrapped him in a hug, but he did not look at her. "Why in the Maker's name would you do that?"

"It's not important."

"Come," Nesiara said putting her packages in the cabinet. "Look what we got."

"What is this?" Shianni asked taking her opportunity to snatch the paper away once his back was turned.

"No!" Raviathan shouted to both women's shock. His face darkened, and it was the first time Nesiara saw him truly upset. "Shianni, you give that back right now."

"Cousin," Shianni said, more surprised than hurt.

Raviathan was instantly ashamed for yelling. He took back the paper, not looking at her and crumpled it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell." Nesiara put a hand on his back, and when his head dipped down more, she pressed against his back and kissed him between the shoulders. Shianni slowly approached and leaned into him. He hugged her tightly. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Shianni said. "What's wrong?"

Raviathan sighed and slumped in a chair. "I'm sorry, Ness. You gave me something so beautiful, and I don't have anything that… I'm sorry." He rested his head in his hands, his long fingers trailing in his hair.

"Gave you…? This is about my marriage gift to you?" Nesiara couldn't believe he was this frustrated over something like that.

"I can't make anything," Raviathan continued, his voice becoming hoarse with unshed tears. "I can't buy anything that's worthy of you. I never felt poor before."

How had he gotten himself so worked up, Nesiara wondered. The bride and groom gifts set the tone for a marriage, at least according to the old women's stories, but they weren’t necessary. Just being who he was, was gift enough. Certainly not something he should even think of selling his instruments for. Nesiara took the crumpled ball of paper.

"No," Raviathan said reaching for her hand. "Please, Ness. I don't want you to see it."

"What is it?"

Raviathan pulled her to him so she was sitting on his lap with her back to him. He rested his face between her shoulder blades. "It's… Maker it's stupid," he said quietly.

"Tell me."

"I thought…" He groaned pressing his forehead against her back. "There are millions love songs and poems, and they're all better than what I can do."

"You wrote a poem?" Nesiara asked.

His arms tightened around her middle. "I have a tune. It still needs polishing, but it's alright. I was trying to come up with lyrics for it, but I can't write."

"I want to read it," Nesiara said.

"No. Please don't. It's so embarrassing."

"Rav," she said firmly. "There are millions love songs and poems, but none of those are mine. I want to read it." When Raviathan sighed, she took that as assent and carefully straightened out the paper. There were scribbles and crossed out lines covering both sides of the paper, but in the bottom right corner were the lines left untouched.

Lost I was and cast away   
Broken notes were all that's left  
Music died, faith betrayed   
The weight of want was all I knew  
From such dust a garden grew. 

I hear the story of our lives   
In the sweetness of your voice   
In splendor of night skies   
A dance of stars, fate and choice  
My future found in your eyes. 

Undone are the knots of shame   
In evening's night we return   
In my heart you write your name  
In winter's frost we shill burn  
In your light as I am flame. 

My heart entangled in golden tresses   
And I am free   
In long kisses and caresses  
No longer adrift   
My heart swells, an unending sea. 

In your eyes the endless blue   
Where only spirits live   
Together we shall walk in life  
Our bodies and souls we give  
My dearest, my beautiful wife 

"The rhyme scheme is a mess," Raviathan said in irritation, "the internal structures are garbage, and my metaphors are everywhere. I can't even get a decent rhythm going. It's… it's just so clumsy." He kissed the back of her neck, and his voice turned from frustrated to longing. "Ness, if I could I would give you all the jewels in the world and dresses made of gold. I'd have a mansion for you to live in and servants to make your bed and run your bath."

"Husband," Nesiara turned in his lap so she could put her arms around him. "I want my song. I want you to sing it on our wedding day and every time I ask you to."

He buried his face in her neck. "You're the Maker's gift."

Nesiara smiled and kissed the tip of his ear. "Silly husband. I wouldn't even be able to move in a gold dress."

Raviathan chuckled and squeezed her tight. "Dresses made of silk then. If I could Ness, I'd give you the heavens, and the stars would be your jewelry."

"Ugh," Shianni grimaced in disgust. "Even pine trees aren't as sappy." 

Raviathan sat back, his adoring gaze fixed on his wife, but he addressed his cousin in a much different tone. "You're staying for dinner then?"

"I heard your cooking has gotten better," Shianni said and read the lyrics. She put down the paper and gave her cousin a hug and kiss. She stayed there and rested her cheek on his head. "You worry too much, cousin. We both told Alarith he isn't allowed to buy your instruments. We were quite firm on the matter. He said he undervalued them to discourage you, and after we kept yelling at him for ten minutes, he shooed us out of the store."

That earned a laugh. "Alright," Raviathan said, sounding less tense, and leaned up to kiss his oldest friend, "what do you want for dinner?"

"That's the spirit," Shianni said and went to their packages. "With what Nesiara sold today, we were able to buy a whole duck and some bacon too. You're going to do that thing with the wood flavor and roast it."

Raviathan groaned. "Ness, why did you want to marry me? I'm just a wharf rat who can't even support you properly."

Shianni glared at him. "Don't call yourself that."

"My family had me marry you for your money," Nesiara said with an impish grin. "I married you for your cooking."

"Glad to know I'm some use," Raviathan said, disheartened.

"Oh, for love of the Maker," Shianni exclaimed. "You're sounding too much like Soris."

"Shianni," Nesiara said, "would you go upstairs and get his lute?"

"No," Raviathan said. "It's not finished. It's going to sound like a bloody mess." Shianni went anyway sending a smirk his way as she climbed the ladder. "My love, it's just not ready."

Nesiara hiked up her skirts so she could straddle him, which always lifted his mood. He squeezed her bottom then settled his hands more gentlemanly around her waist. She kissed him. "I don't care. You can still work on it, but I want to hear what you have."

He kissed her jaw, his lips trailing along her skin. "I know you've been worried about me. Never doubt that I love you."

"You've been so quiet lately." Nesiara sucked his ear tip, causing him to groan. "That's better."

Raviathan laughed, his arms tightening to pull her close. "My cousin is going to tease us."

"Let her. My darling husband. There may be a million elves in this world, but I am marrying you. As you told me, take the gifts you are given in this life and appreciate them."

"Wise words," he said. He kissed her and didn't stop even when Shianni came back down and started making gagging sounds.

~o~O~o~

"Ermph," Raviathan murmured wondering why he woke. After a small stretch, he settled more firmly around his wife, his hand cupping her breast as he did every night in sleep. So wonderfully soft. The curve of her butt was pressed against his pelvis, her sweet skin a caress along the length of his body. As cold as winter was, he was cocooned in her warmth. If she was receptive, perhaps they could enjoy each other before going back to sleep. He nuzzled her neck and felt her slight shift as she responded.

"Mm?" Nesiara lifted her head when there was another frantic knocking at the door.

Now that he heard it while awake, Raviathan realized that's what had woken him. He kissed his wife's bare shoulder then shifted over her to put on his pair of sleeping pants. His father's bare feet made the floor boards creak as he made his way to the ladder.

"What is it?" Nessa asked.

Since Solyn died, all knocks in the middle of the night had been for him, the only healer the alienage had. Raviathan stopped. No one had asked since Valendrian had issued the command that Raviathan was no longer allowed to practice. This would be the first time he would be tested. Disobey his father? After all the pain Raviathan knew he put his father through?

Voices floated up, one in panic, one determined. "Cyrion, she's screaming and in so much pain! I'm going to lose them both. Can't you understand that?"

"Go home, Giles. There's nothing he can do," Cyrion said.

What should he do? "Ness," he whispered, "it's for me."

She sat up next to him, her skin like a glowing pearl in the moonlight. Her blue eyes flashed in the dark room as she regarded him. "Husband. Whatever your choice, I'll support you."

Raviathan hurriedly pulled on his small clothes and regular pants. "Maker bless you, love." Two shirts, his socks, then grabbing his healer's bag, Raviathan headed for the ladder. This might be the last night they would stay under his father's roof.

Giles had Cyrion gripped by the arms, shaking him in desperation. "If it were your wife and son, what would you do?"

"It is my son!" Cyrion shot back. "I have lost my w-wife, my sister. Do you think I do not understand you? I won't, I won't lose any more."

When Raviathan descended the ladder, Giles hurried to him. "You'll come?"

Raviathan nodded and grabbed his boots. He could feel the weight of his father staring at him, but Raviathan kept his head down unable to look at this father. Cyrion put a hand on his arm. "Son," his voice cracked. "Don't do this. Please."

"I'm sorry, father." His father's quiet plea twisted his stomach. "How long has she been in labor?"

"Two days," Giles said. "It's…"

"Two days!" Raviathan's head shot up. He surged to his feet, grabbing Giles by the arm. Unfamiliar with the building, Giles was slower in the stairway and had to hold Raviathan's shoulder to keep on course. "Tell me about the labor."

"Ah, well, her water broke day before last as we were going to bed. She's had a bit of blood before that. Couple weeks. Mother said the blood was normal. But since her water, nothing. I thought women had pain during labor, but she didn't feel anything, so I thought that was good, you know? Maybe she'd have an easy delivery. Then yesterday she couldn't keep anything down. No food or water. But she's bad now. Sweating a lot. Hot and chilled. Please Rav. She's so weak and hurting. I can't… I can't lose her."

The southern wind sliced like a knife outside the building, cutting through Raviathan's thin clothes as a butcher slices meat from bone. The shock of cold stopped Raviathan, and Giles had to pull him to get going. Nose and ears going numb, Raviathan said, "It'll be okay. Giles, you've got to be her strength. I know you're scared, but you have to be calm for her. Understood?"

Giles nodded but didn't speak as the two hurried through the black night.

The alienage was eerily still at night with only the wind to accompany the two elves. Iced mud crunched under the feet of the two trespassers in the empty streets. The buildings and walls loomed, blind and mute, like great shadows separating them from the rest of the world. At night, with the gates closed, the alienage was the extent of their world. No shems. No templars. At night there were no thugs on the streets, only the occasional furry scavenger. Secure and separate. The single lights of stars shown, bright pinpricks, precise and unyielding in the blackness. The promise dawn gave of waking life felt as separate as the world beyond the walls.

Raviathan was shivering by the time they got to the small home. The fire was too low. Not enough water.

"He's here," Giles said, going to his wife.

Anise was lying on her side, panting and sunken eyed, her head cradled in her mother's lap. Anise was brunette to her mother's blonde, but otherwise they were mirror images with a score and five years difference. Raviathan knelt next to Anise and pulled up her gown. "I'm afraid my hands are going to be cold. Giles tells me you're from Amaranthine," Raviathan said in the most normal voice he could manage though the cold made him shiver. Anise didn't seem to notice his cold hands as he examined her. At least the baby was in the right position.

"Y-yes," the mother said. She stared at him, a stranger who was being too casual in a crisis. "He's so young," she whispered to Giles.

"Anise," Raviathan said feeling the bulge that had developed under her stomach, "how long has it been since you've urinated?"

"I don't remember." Her stomach contracted, the muscles bunching under her rippling skin. She gasped and clutched her husband's hands.

Raviathan moved to feel her forehead and the pulse in her wrist. Sweat plastered her hair to her head, she was cold, and crying without tears. "Both of you," Raviathan said addressing the mother and Giles. "We need a lot more water. Borrow your neighbors' buckets. At least four. I'm going to build up the fire. The faster we can get clean water, the better. Go," he said when they didn't move.

When the two left, Raviathan threw more wood on the fire. He felt a momentary twinge of guilt knowing that wood rationing was necessary for their survival through winter, but it couldn't be helped. Once a pot of water was set closer to heat, Raviathan knelt by Anise's head and brushed back her hair. "Alright, sweetie. Everything is going to be fine. I've delivered a lot of babies, and you're going to get through this."

"It hurts," she whimpered.

"I know, sweetheart. It hurts and you're tired. You don't feel like you're going to make it, but you will. You're going to have a beautiful little baby in your arms. Now, Giles said you couldn't drink anything?"

"No. I tried sips, but it…," she stopped as another contraction made her clench.

Raviathan messaged her back until the contraction stopped. "You took sips," he prompted.

"Made me feel sick. Like the room started to move, and I couldn't…keep it down."

"Have you tried to pee?"

"C-can't," she panted.

Raviathan took the pot of warm water and set it next the wall. "Alright, sweetie. You're going to have to help me here. I want you to crouch with your back against the wall and sitting over the pot."

"What?"

"I know it sounds strange, but it might help you pee. Your bladder is too full, and that's delaying things. Now," he said putting her arm over his shoulders to help her up, "let's get you settled." He helped her waddle to the pot, supporting as much of her weight as he could.

"Warm," she said dazedly when she lowered into the water.

Raviathan tied her sleeping gown in a knot over her belly to keep it out of the way, and started massaging the swelling of her overly full bladder. "Feels good, doesn't it." He had to keep her weight supported, but she was looking more relaxed.

"Feel so warm now." Her head drooped as if she would fall asleep.

Raviathan sang to her, his hand massaging until the swelling started to reduce. "That's a good girl. You hear that, Anise? You're doing a good job. Just keep it up, and by morning you're going to have a sweet little baby boy in your arms."

She murmured in half sleep, and Raviathan started singing again, low and soft. Giles and his mother-in-law returned with the requested buckets. "Start a pot to boil and another to heat," Raviathan said. "I'm going to need to wash up before I can do an examination, and Anise needs some fluids."

The mother set to work, but shot a questioning look Raviathan's way. "She can't hold down water."

"She's not going to get it the traditional way," Raviathan said. "All better, sweetie?"

Anise nodded, and with Giles' help, they cleaned her up and set her back on the pallet. Raviathan untied her gown. "Instead of lying on your side, why don't you kneel. You can lean on Giles. Giles, you stay with her. Keep telling her what a good job she's doing. If she feels like sleeping, support her head."

"Uh, okay," Giles said, and Anise leaned into his chest. He kissed her ear then started murmuring encouragements.

Raviathan took out dried elfroot leaves from his healer's bag and ground them. He sang softly as he worked, letting his voice fill the small room with intimacy and his own calm. The mother sat next to him. "You've done this before."

"A few times," Raviathan said with a grin. "I suppose I can call you granny now."

At that, the woman bit her lower lip. "Isn't that bad luck?"

"Everything is going to be fine. You're going to have a grandson by morning."

"Grandson? She's been carrying high."

Raviathan shrugged. "Intuition I suppose. Let me know when that water is warm. Not too hot." He carefully shook the crushed leaves into a narrow necked flask then added pressed cinimar root. "How's she doing?"

"Better, I think," Giles answered. "She's sleepy. Will… is she going to be strong enough? All this time."

Raviathan lifted her gown to massage her back. "Oh sure. The best thing for her is to be relaxed as possible. Save her strength. When the water is ready, I've got a mixture that will help reinvigorate her."

"Mixture? But she can't drink."

"Well, it's not going in that end," Raviathan said and patted Anise's lower back. "She needs fluids, and we need to bypass her nausea. Don't we, sweetie?" Anise mumbled an incoherent response. "That's right. No worries, Giles."

Anise whimpered and bowed low. Raviathan reached around and felt her womb tighten in a contraction. When she started a high pitched keening, Raviathan stroked her back and said, "There, there. Try to make it low."

"Low?" she whimpered.

"Yeah. Lower in your throat. Maybe grunt or hum."

Giles looked lost as he rubbed her shoulder. "That helps?"

Raviathan smiled, soft in the low firelight. "You'd be surprised. Part of it is distracting her from the pain."

"The water's ready," the mother said.

"Alright." Raviathan left to finish his mixture. "Anise, sweetie. This is going to feel strange, but you're going to feel much better afterwards. Hold in the fluid as long as you can. And then we can get this baby born."

~o~O~o~

Five hours later, Anise was sleeping on her side with a boy wrapped up in a soft blanket with her. Raviathan and Giles washed up, and the new grandmother cuddled her daughter and grandson. "It's getting close to work," Giles said.

Raviathan nodded. "We'll get that buried first," he said indicating the placenta. "Granny, make sure she drinks that herbal tea mixture. Yogurt and bread are good for her. Maybe an egg for protein. If there's any pain or bleeding, send someone for me. I can be here in less than ten minutes."

"Thank you," she mouthed.

The two men left in the lightening sky of pre dawn. The cold stole Raviathan's breath, and he started shivering instantly. The two jogged as much for warmth as to get their task done in time. Using wooden boards as makeshift shovels, they buried the placenta near a garden.

There was an old myth that when elves died, their souls needed to find home in order to move beyond the Fade. Burying the placenta was like planting a seed for the soul to root. When their souls found their home, they could be at peace and go to beyond the Beyond. Gardens encouraged growth, so this was where a child's seed was planted.

Raviathan slapped the dirt off his hands, only then realizing he forgot his gloves and knit hat. His father was probably asleep, but Raviathan didn't want to take that chance. He couldn't face his father now. He knew he was only delaying the inevitable. It was stupid, but he didn't want to go back. Maybe he could borrow Lenard's gloves. Elva's husband was called often as not for work and spent his days off in a tavern. Five bits for drink, and Raviathan was sure Lenard would lend his gloves for a day.

When he started to leave for the gate, Giles pulled him into a hug. "Thank you, Rav. Anything I can do, you just ask."

The two kissed on the cheek, and Raviathan felt warm despite the cold. "She's going to be fine. And your son is perfect."

A smile cracked Giles' raw boned face. "He's so beautiful. And he looks so much like Anise."

Raviathan listened with a patient smile as the two headed for the main street. He had heard new parents often enough, overwhelmed with the joy of a new life. Pity Giles couldn't stay with his wife and child for a few days. Giles wasn't traditionally handsome, but his tired, wondering smile transformed him. His large features spoke of character, a new father, humble but not simple. His wasn't a face for sculptors, but a face to be loved.

Every time Raviathan helped deliver a child, he wondered about the continuation of life, and the familiar emotions flooded him. What would it be like to have a child of his own? An image of her sprang into his mind. Soft baby skin. Perfect and with the dreamy sweet smell that babies had. He could see himself holding his daughter, the strength of the idea making him blink back tears.

At the square, a wrapped figure hurried over. "Ness," Raviathan said in surprise. "It's freezing. What…"

She kissed him. "How is she?"

"Fine. Sore, tired, and healthy."

Giles spoke up, "You should have seen him, Ness. Comes in and makes everything alright. And I have a son."

She smiled at him. "I'll have to visit when Anise is better. Now that I know you have a son, I can make a baby charm for him."

"Sweet Ness, what are you doing out?" Raviathan knew his father was upset, but he wouldn't turn them out like this for disobedience. Some parents would, but not his father. The shawl she had around her shoulders wasn't enough against the winter morning.

"You're coming home to rest, aren't you?"

"No. I have to work."

"Love, you've been up all night. Father's mad, but it'll be alright. Come home to bed." Raviathan kissed her, and she scowled. "You're so stubborn."

"I am."

She opened her shawl to pull out his gloves, hat, two curved dock picks, and a small pouch carrying his lunch. "Just be careful. And if you get too tired, come home. I can make you agree to that."

"I'll watch out for him," Giles said.

Raviathan kissed her. "You're the best, Ness."

"Humph." She squeezed his hand and turned to jog back home to her warm bed.

At the gates, Giles spread his arms wide for the expectant crowd. "I have a son!"

There were cheers and congratulations, thumps on the back and hugs. Raviathan stood to the side and watched on as if he had been no part of it. There were a few glances his way, but he shrugged with an innocent smile. The guards who opened the gates looked at the celebrating elves warily.

A guard who had no chin and a heavy mole covering on side of his nose glared at the elves. "What 'chu all so blasted happy about? That there'll be another cock rider in twenty years?"

Lenard called, "Piss off, rat. Oh, wait. Piss. Rat. I'm thinkin' I remember somethin' about that…"

He didn't have time to finish before the guard was after him. The crowd parted as the guard chased Lenard about. The elf slipped and slid in the mud but kept his feet and dodged around the small yard. It was more than the guard could do, and any rancor Giles might have felt at the guard's comment was gone in laughter. Spying a clean break, Lenard broke for the bridge across to the south side of Denerim and sprinted. The guard fell to one knee when one leg gave out in the mud. Red faced and seething, he ran for the elf, hounded by laughter from elves and guards alike.

Raviathan gave Giles a half hug. "I think you just got your baby's gift from Lenard."

Giles turned his head into Raviathan's neck, and Raviathan felt the wet of tears on his cheek. "This day is a gift," he whispered. "Maker's breath. Even the sun feels brighter. Likes it's shining just for me."

Maybe the heavy emotions that coursed through him were from lack of sleep, but Raviathan felt like weeping, though from happiness or relief, want of his own child or fear for Nesiara's safety if that day ever came, Raviathan could not tell. Was it selfish to want a child? To put his wife through that pain? That any child of his could be subject to the same legacy he carried? Would he be a good father?

"Come on you two," Curran whispered, his arms around both men. "Rav is already suspected enough."

Giles nodded and joined the crowd walking to the docks. The elves gathered around him, all taking joy in a new life or joking about the guard and Lenard. Curran kept his arm around Raviathan's shoulders as the two trailed behind the rest. "Normally, I wouldn't go against Valendrian, but you did a good thing, Rav."

"Does everyone know I had a hand in helping Anise?"

"Pretty much," Curran said. "They'll try and keep it low, but when you two walked up together, there wasn't much doubt."

"It was my father's wishes that I shouldn't practice. Not Valendrian's. I’ve never disobeyed my father like that before."

"Cyrion's a good man. He wouldn't kick you out over that."

Raviathan didn’t answer. For the most part, he didn't think he'd be kicked out, but seeing Nesiara this morning had raised his doubts.

"You really worried about that?" Curran asked. 

"Father, not so much. Thing is, everyone knows about me. Giles is the first, but sure won't be the last. I don't know what to do, Curran."

"Personally, I thought Valendrian was trying to hold back the tide." Curran removed his arm when they passed under the portcullis, and Raviathan felt cold where he had been accustomed to the elf's warmth.

Raviathan lowered his voice now that they were in the realm of shems. "Maybe. But there are people who would turn me in just out of spite. Like Elva. They're both trying to protect me, but this isn't going to work."

Curran murmured deep in his throat. "You know, Rav, there are times I wonder why we have it so bad. Why do elves get the shit end of things all the time? We're as smart as the shems. We can be just as capable. Why are we stuck in crumbling buildings that don't keep the cold out? At night Alorn and I are just trying to keep our son and each other warm. Winters scare the crap out of me. Every year. Fall comes, and the sky has that blue that's so rich you can almost touch it, but my stomach knots 'cause I know what's coming. Alorn and I cradling little Cevin just praying the cold don't hurt him too bad. Maker bless her, but her days were cursed when she married me, try as she might to make the best of things. We're eating rats, and I have to hear shems piss and moan when they have to eat mutton a week straight. Dockers, servants, or cock riders. Why can't we have just a bit of something better? And then I think of Elva and another dozen like her. Bitter as winter.

"It's a strange thing, Rav. Takes so much to build something up, and so little to break it down. Like Anise. All that care and just pure effort into making a baby. Near a year, and that baby could have been lost at any time. At the end of it, after all those months of worry, and she almost lost him anyway. And they still ain't safe. They'll be scraping for food, and every day of missing work makes it all worse. If you asked me yesterday, it'd say it'd be more likely for Giles to mourn them than to be celebrating. Work every day, all your life, and lose it so quick.

"What's worse is that we shouldn't have to. I ain't asking for the world. Just a home that keeps out the wind. Food that don't make us sick. I wish my wife didn't look so thin, that she didn't smile to cover her hunger up. People like you and Solyn. You're so far above the rest of us, and maybe that's why Elva and her like hate you. You remind us of the shit we live in. That we could have it better, and we don't. We could have healers. We could have books and be as smart as them shems. Maker, what I wouldn't give so that Cevin never gets called a cock rider. Giles looks like he's standing in the Maker's light. 'Cause of you. You change the course of people's lives. Rav, I don't know what the right thing is. I wish I could help you more in figuring that out. But I know what it ain't."

Before they stepped out into the open docks, Raviathan pulled Curran aside for a hug. Raviathan knew he had a much better life than many of his fellows. Most of the time, he forgot how much better. "Thanks, Curran."

"Aw. Ain’t ‘nuthing." Curran patted his back, but his smile was wide when they parted. He was a man made for smiles, Raviathan thought.

They lined up with shems who weren't already assigned to a ship and the rest of the elves. The foremen already had their teams chosen, so the decisions came quickly. Giles and Curran worked on loading, Raviathan with the crane team. Those not chosen shuffled off, grumbling about favoritism or the lack of trade. Raviathan trotted up to Lenard who had been passed over again, his reputation for sloppiness guaranteeing that he'd only be chosen when work was abundant. Raviathan fished out all the coppers he had. "It's thanks. For not letting that bastard shem get away with what he said."

Lenard bobbed his head. "Maker smile on you."

Once the sailors had enough shore leave, the harassment had died down to a minimum. Being grabbed at was one less thing for Raviathan to worry about during the long day. When he was occupied, Raviathan could cope with deficient sleep, but the protracted day took on an endless quality in his sluggish mind. At times his mind drifted to Anise and her son, or to Nesiara. Lenard's beaten shuffle kept reappearing in his thoughts. Most of all, Raviathan thought of his father. At the day's close, Raviathan was closer to a decision.

A red sunset warmed the alienage walls. High and comforting, walking through the portcullis was coming home. The separation they had to keep outside the walls left. The sense of prey that made Raviathan uncertain was gone, and he breathed in deep the peace of home.

"Where is he?" a shrill voice carried just beyond the gates.

"Ah, Elva, I don't know. Leave off," an elf grumbled.

"Sodding louts the lot of you. Don't give a damn, do you? If he falls into a gutter, would any of you care?"

"Shut it, Elva," another docker called. "Don't go pretending you care to us."

Raviathan came around the gate in a tired daze. The drama was nothing new. He was shoved roughly, knocking into two others, and that was new. "Maker's blood! What's wrong with you?"

"You little brat," Elva spat. "You took his job away."

"You know, Elva," Raviathan said through gritted teeth, "if I were your husband, I'd spend my days trying to drown in beer too."

"You're not better than me." Her face twisted in a sneer. "All these years. Your family may have had enough money to buy that wife of yours, but here I thought slavery was illegal in Ferelden." Raviathan turned away, already tired with her. Elva called after him, "You ended up a wharf rat. Just like I always thought you would."

Raviathan took Giles hand and pulled him close to whisper, "It's best if I'm not seen at your home. She'll be sore, but if she's in pain or bleeding, come get me."

Giles nodded once to show he understood then left down the alley that would take him home.

A boy of six ran out from a narrow alley. "Rav!"

Raviathan bent down to scoop up the child. His eyelids looked swollen, and Raviathan was sure he'd been crying earlier. "Hey there, little bird. What are you doing out so late? You know that's dangerous."

"But I wanted to see you. You're not around anymore."

"I know, but I have to work. Venri is going to be scared with you out so late." Raviathan ran his nose along the ridge of Zacky's ear. Normally a child his age would be too old for that kind of affection, but Zacky wasn't like the other children. Too small at birth, the child of a mother who died from drink, he would never be the size of the rest. "And she's got a pet werewolf."

"No she doesn't."

"Oh yes she does. She keeps her pet werewolf hidden, and when children are out too late, she takes him off his leash."

"No she doesn't," Zacky said, but he was starting to laugh.

"Would I lie to you? His name is Harry, and I bet he's prowling around right now looking for you."

"There's no such thing as werewolves."

"Yes there are. See, Harry fell in love with Venri, so now he does whatever she needs him to do. Like finding lost children. All she has to do is snap her fingers, and he comes running with his tongue out like this," Raviathan said and started panting.

"Then where is he now?"

"Lurking. If you weren't with me, he'd have snatched you up." Raviathan tickled the boy. "Yup. That's just what he'd do. And then he'd shake you around like this." Raviathan tossed the boy up then hugged him close, twisting his torso back and forth until Zacky's laughter filled the square. "Alright, little bird. Time for your supper." He knelt to let the boy down. "Kiss."

Zacky gave him a loud kiss on the cheek then, with a supreme effort, opened the heavy door to the orphanage.

That little bit of energy spent, Raviathan returned home, his feet dragging with exhaustion. It couldn't continue like this. She had to know. There were calls from his neighbors as he made his way up, all concerned about Anise. Aside from, "Fine. They'll be fine," Raviathan did not linger. If worst came to worst, they could stay at Shianni's place until they got their own apartment. Now that there were vacancies, they wouldn't have to construct their own home. Between the two of them, rent was possible. They could do it. But if Ness became pregnant, how much work would she be able to do? What he made as a dock worker was spotty and low. He could do what Solyn did, treat both humans and elves.

The possibility of practicing openly stopped Raviathan as he climbed the third flight of stairs. Could he do that? If his father wanted him to move out… there was no one to stop him. Take Solyn's place as a healer? He… he would have to be careful. Could he do it? The templars…

Raviathan shuddered. He could be killed.

He had to tell Nesiara. She had a right to know everything. Why he was in danger, the truth about his mother and aunt, what that could mean for their own future. Feeling a new sense of purpose, Raviathan bounded up the last few steps. At this point, she would either stay with him or not. Together they would decide the course of their lives.

Inside his apartment his father sat at the table, a mug of wine cradled in his hands. Raviathan asked, "Where is she?"

Cyrion took a sip before answering. "She and Nessa went to get dinner. Sit down, Son."

"I'm going to tell her," Raviathan said taking his place at the table.

"Not yet."

"Father, every day I wait, it feels like a betrayal. You had to know the day would come. You knew before you were married."

"Your mother and I had years to get to know each other. By the time I found out, we were already in love. I… I wanted to give you the best possible chance. Wait until you two were more secure."

"You were worried she would leave."

"And that she might talk before she did so. Son, you would have no defense. All we have is silence to keep you safe. It's such a fragile thing."

"As if I didn't already know that," Raviathan said in a low growl. "The constant lessons and fear." The lack of sleep was getting to him, Raviathan told himself. He rested his head in his hands to hide the prick of tears. Sleep. He'd feel less emotional after sleep. "And how long would you have waited? A year? After our children, when the danger isn't only mine to bear? I understand, but when is the right time? I love Ness. Father, I can't keep secrets from her."

"You mean you won't." Cyrion reached out and took his son's hand. "And if it goes wrong? You expect to run off to the Dalish?"

"Don't talk about the Dalish as if that's a fantasy. Plenty of elves have done that."

"Does Ness strike you as the type of woman who would be happy living wild?"

"Father…" The tears did fall then. Raviathan couldn't imagine putting his wife in danger, without shelter and security. The Dalish were a childish fantasy, and that hit full force when he thought of his wife forced to live that way. She would be so unhappy, her fate tied to his.

Cyrion stood to hug his son. "Son. Please. Just wait a little longer." The weight of his father pressed against his back, comforting and solid. Cyrion's hand shook as he ran it through his son's hair.

"Father, I don't want to hide. Not from her." The tears stung Raviathan's eyes, his voice thin with emotion—exhaustion and foolishness. "I'm so sick of being ashamed all the time."

"I know. It's been hard on both of us. Just wait until you're married."

"Two months?" With the chaos of the king's march south, their wedding permits weren't processed in time for the Wintersend Annum. According to Nesiara, more than half of the Chantry mothers had left to tend to the king's army.

"Three days."

Raviathan turned to his father in shock. "Not on an annum…?"

"Valendrian moved the date forward."

"But… why?" Elves were always married on the annums. Not once had he seen it otherwise. It carried the same profound wrongness as chopping the vhenadahl. "It…it's just not right."

Cyrion returned to his seat. "Your mother and I weren't married on an annum."

It was only shems who married on unsacred days. Raviathan put a hand over his gaping mouth as he took in the news of his marriage date. "Father, why?"

"You don't want to be married early?"

"You know that's not the issue." It would be for Soris. His cousin had been relieved by the delay. "Why aren't you telling me?"

"Because I don't know why. Valendrian came to me this afternoon. Said he talked to Mother Boann, and that she agreed to perform the ceremony this Chantry Day. Considering how few mothers are left, I'm surprised she agreed."

"Do you think it's because of Giles and Anise?" The three of them had acted against Valendrian's order, but that order was for his father's sake. Cyrion was the wounded party. Moving their marriage date didn't make sense, but Raviathan could think of no other reason.

Cyrion blinked rapidly then took a sip of wine. Raviathan knew he wasn't going to be asked to leave now, but his father was still struggling with the events from last night. "I'm not sure, Son."

Raviathan bit his lip. "I'm going to start practicing again. Full time. I'm going to take human clients as well. Like Solyn did."

Cyrion turned inward at the news. "Son. I can't… can't stand the thought of losing you, too. Why would you do this? After all we've done?"

"Father, I'm scared too, but I can't sit back anymore. I can't."

"What about when you have children? Would you leave them without a father? Ness without a husband? And what if your children…?"

His chest tightened at the thought, and Raviathan bowed his head. "That's not fair."

"It's a possibility."

Hands clenching, Raviathan raised his head. "There are lots of possibilities. Anise could have died last night. Even if she survived, her son would be dead, and she'd be too damaged to ever carry again. I can name a dozen elves who would have died in the past two years. Maker's breath. There were a few times at the docks where I almost went to the Fade permanently. At least as a healer, I won't be threatened with rape every day."

Cyrion's head shot up. "Son."

"I… didn't want to tell you." Raviathan's lips thinned. "At least as a healer, I'll be doing something worthwhile. Make things better. It's time I started helping the alienage."

Cyrion leaned back and looked at the ceiling. "Grief made me blind, didn't it. Ever since I lost your mother, it's like I've been walking about in a fog."

Raviathan squeezed his father's hand. "I understand now."

"I guess we're never out of danger." Cyrion gave his son a sad smile. "Your children…"

"My children will be raised with love. Just like I was."

Cyrion pulled his son forward, and the two rested their foreheads together. "Son, from the moment we knew your mother was pregnant, I loved you. I'll always love you."

"I love you too."

He kissed his son's cheek and sat straight. "You can wait three days?"

Throat closing, Raviathan wiped away his tears. "Yeah."

"Well. Best make it four. So you can enjoy your wedding night."

Raviathan laughed, his throat working, and he blinked to clear his eyes. "It'll be okay, won't it?"

"It'll all work itself out. Always has."

~o~O~o~

"Here. New wife," Drioni called when Nesiara passed the grannies' door. "Go on up, Rav. This is for wives." When he turned to leave with a shrug, Drioni pinched his butt eliciting a yelp of surprise.

"You used to be a lot more subtle," Raviathan said. It was impossible to be mad at the grinning imp.

"Wait until we dance tomorrow, young groom. You've had enough practice for your wedding night, a dance or two shouldn't put you too much off your game."

Raviathan gave a bark of laughter at that. "Try that line on Ness. I grew up watching you dance the grooms to exhaustion."

"Rite of passage," she said with the dignity of a priestess. "And watch your sass, young man. I'm still your elder."

"Of course, Granny. My apologies." He leaned down to kiss her cheek, and she rolled her eyes in mock ecstasy as her hand roamed over and squeezed his butt. Laughing quietly, he left to go prepare dinner.

Drioni made sure he was gone when she pulled Nesiara inside. "Now, new wife. We have a final gift for you."

"And don't you start protesting," Eolas said. "After my sister and I are done with him… well… we thought he might need a little inspiration." The two old women unfolded a small sack and pulled out two tiny articles made of pale pink lace and silk. Nesiara felt the blush flood her face to the tips of her ears. "And don't say anything about these either. Let him take off your wedding clothes tomorrow night and discover for himself."

"It won't matter how tired he is." Drioni chuckled wickedly as she held up the delicate pink small clothes. "You'll have his blood boiling for sure."

Eolas stood when the bride seemed too immobilized. She gave Nesiara a hug. "We thought this color would complement your skin. I'm glad we did this early," she said addressing her sister.

"I can't remember the last time Valendrian moved a wedding from an annum. Bad luck that. He didn't seem to be in such a hurry during Wintersend."

"Adaia," Eolas said with a too knowing look at her sister.

"Rav's mother?" Nesiara looked between the two women in curiosity. The Wintersend Annum had only been three weeks ago, but with three major festivities, Feastday and two annums, and then the king's army moving South, the Chantry had been too busy to process their permits. Not that she would have minded being married during the Wintersend Annum, but Soris and Valora weren't ready. She worried for the two of them. In the course of two months, they still hadn't formed much of a connection yet.

Eolas patted her hand. "Not to worry, dearie. Valendrian knows what's best. Here now," she said wrapping up the little articles and hiding them in Nesiara's pocket. "Now remember he's not supposed to know. Your wedding night should always be something special. A little mystery and a lot of fun."

Each granny got a hug and kiss before Nesiara left. As she ascended to her home, other elves called to cheer or congratulate her. For weeks she hadn't needed the little chalk markings her husband had made for her, but they always made her smile. They showed the way home. To him.

To her surprise, Alarith joined them for the pre wedding supper. She thought Soris and Valora should be here as well, but they were having their ceremonial supper at the orphanage. Soris had begged off saying the orphans didn't get much to celebrate, so wedding dinners were special.

Cyrion and Alarith talked at length about politics, especially how the war could affect the alienage. It was talk that Nesiara had learned to pay attention to. Raviathan seemed to ignore them in favor of gazing at her throughout dinner, but every once in a while he added his observations to the discussion. Those pretty eyes of his still had the power to make her feel desired and shy, and most of all, loved. Nessa sat quietly listening to them with the occasional smile at some remark. Only once did Nesiara see a deeper pain in Alarith when the shopkeep caught her holding hands with her groom.

All too soon Shianni showed up to take her beloved away for the last night before the newlyweds would have their official ceremony. It was the same parting ceremony Anesa and Shaun had gone through as Nesiara pried her sister away and her father and little brother pulled at Shaun.

"Come on, cousin," Shianni said trying to pull Raviathan from a clutching Nesiara.

"No, he's mine," she said laughing.

"I don't want to," Raviathan held his bride tighter and pouted at his cousin, but his efforts were in vain.

Cyrion laughed at the display. Alarith came over then grinning broadly as he grabbed Raviathan around the waist to pull. "Get the bride," he told Shianni, and Nessa did her part to undo their fingers. Between the three of them, were able to disengage the couple.

Raviathan raised the back of one hand to his forehead and reached out dramatically for his bride, "Ness!" he cried theatrically. "My bride! I will not sleep until we are united again."

Trying to keep the smile from her face, she reached out imploringly, "My husband. I will count the minutes until we are reunited. I promise. I will stay true to you, my love."

"It's one bloody night," Shianni groaned.

"Ness!" Raviathan wailed. "No matter how far I roam, I will keep you in my heart. No matter what wenches find their way into my bed…"

"What!?" Nesiara exclaimed no longer struggling.

"…you will always be my love. Until the Maker calls us to his side, you shall be above all others."

"What wenches?" Nesiara said putting her fists on her hips, and Nessa lowered her head to hide a smile.

Shianni sighed giving her cousin an annoyed glare. "That would be me. Wench indeed," she muttered. She kissed Nesiara and gave her a firm hug. "Not to worry, future cousin. We didn't have half this trouble getting Soris away from his bride."

Nesiara returned the embrace with a smile. "Take care of him for me, future cousin." They kissed in departure, and Shianni took Raviathan's bundle of wedding clothes. He blew his bride a kiss and allowed Alarith to force him out the door. As they left they heard Nesiara and Nessa laughing through the door.

Alarith kept an arm around him just in case he decided to bolt back through the door, but laughed all the same. "Our little troublemaker is finally getting married. Who'd have ever guessed this rascal would find such a good match? There were a few years I was really worried about you, Rav."

Raviathan and Alarith shared a look of hidden mischief. He said quietly in case any neighbors were listening, "Thanks for keeping silent all those years."

"I'm just glad it's over," he whispered back. Alarith squeezed Raviathan's shoulder. "And now you have a beautiful bride waiting for you tomorrow. It's wonderful to see you two together."

"She is pretty adorable."

"So are you," he laughed bumping his hip into the young groom.

When they reached Shianni's apartment, Alarith hugged and kissed Raviathan in an unusual display for the northerner. Touched, Raviathan clapped the man's shoulder in parting. Soris was already waiting for them in Shianni's small apartment. Unable to afford a bed, Shianni slept on a pallet in the tiny adjacent room which she shared on the rare occasion that her mother was in town. Soris looked up from the little table where he had been fiddling with his wedding ring. His wedding bundle was taking up half the space of the tiny table. "You're finally here," Soris said, the tremble in his voice giving away his nervousness. The ring almost rolled off the table when he tried to put it down with fumbling fingers. He slapped it, the sound of metal striking wood loud enough that he made himself jump.

Raviathan gave him a hug. "It won't be so bad, cousin."

Soris patted his arm glad for the comfort. "No, I suppose not. Valora is a good woman after all. Come on. It's late. No more drinking for you tonight, cousin."

Shianni made a face at him then the three of them stripped and dressed in their night clothes without preamble. Raviathan helped undo the little clasps in Shianni's hair while Soris put away the bottle of wine he had been drinking then blew out the lamp when the others were ready. "You know," Shianni said as they settled to bed, "this will probably be the last time the three of us sleep together."

Soris was on his back but turned towards them, his eyes flashing in the sliver of moonlight. Raviathan was on the other end with Shianni in the middle. She turned towards Soris, and Raviathan cuddled pressing into her back with an arm over her waist. He kissed her neck and said, "That makes you sad, doesn't it."

"Of course it does. The last few months, you've been so involved with Ness. I'm happy for you, but I also feel like I'm losing you."

"And me?" Soris asked.

"Not so much with you moving in, wife and all," she said with a little of her humor coming back.

Mischief saturated Raviathan's voice. "So cousin. No more respite. Have you and Valora…?" They could almost hear Soris's embarrassment. "Well? Have you?"

"No," he said turning his face into the pillow. "I… I'm not like you, Rav," he whispered. "It isn't easy for me."

Raviathan reached over to take Soris's hand. "That's not a bad thing, cousin."

"It will be tomorrow," he said glumly. "Holy Maker. I don't know how we're going to… just ugh."

Was he afraid of sex? "Is it Valora? Or the night itself?"

Soris squirmed enough that Raviathan had to pull the blankets back so he was covered. "Both? I don't… she's nice enough. But what if… what if we can't…?"

Raviathan squeezed his cousin's hand. "Cousin, she's going to be just as nervous as you are. And shy. Just go slow and be gentle. Things will work out."

"I just…" Soris fumbled, "now that the day is here, I wish I had some experience. Maybe then I wouldn't be so nervous."

Settling back on the pallet, Raviathan let his arm drape over Shianni's waist. "I wish I had less. Cousin, what you and Valora will have will be special because you share yourself with just one other person. I wish I had done that for Nesiara."

Shianni shifted to look at his shadow, her eyes also catching the slender bit of moonlight. "I never understood that about you, and I'm sure I don't know half of the girls you've been with. You risked so much. It couldn't have been worth it."

Feeling ashamed already from what Alarith had said, Raviathan squirmed. His cousins had protected him for years, and, now that he looked back, had been warning him all that time. The only time they quarreled was when he was tired of their comments, but they had said them only out of concern. He appreciated that now, though he hadn't been able to then. "I don't know."

Soris reached over to lay a hand on his side. "I don't want to fight. Especially since it's going to be the last time it's just the three of us."

"No," Raviathan said still uncomfortable. "I know you two were only trying to look out for me. It isn't that. I just don't know how to explain it."

Shianni asked, "You're okay talking about it?" Raviathan held her tight resting his head against hers. Shianni shifted to a more comfortable position next to him. "I know it didn't make you happy."

"No," Raviathan whispered. "I could tell the adults were watching me, and I tried to stop a few times. I lasted almost a month once."

"Why cousin," Soris asked. "If you were exiled… I don't want to even think about it."

"I couldn't help it, Soris," Raviathan admitted. "I'd be alright for a while, and then my thoughts would get stuck, and it was all I could think about. At least with Ness, I'm finally at peace with it."

"I'm glad, cousin," Soris said. "You both look really happy together."

"Come on," Shianni said as she snuggled between her two cousins. "Get some sleep. We've got a big day tomorrow."

"Love you, cousins."

"And you."

"Same here."


	13. Married Life – Of Petty Tyrants

Raviathan smelled wine as a light kiss brushed his cheek. "Wake up, cousin. You remember what day it is?"

"Get drunk before noon day, isn't it?" Raviathan murmured.

Shianni snuggled against his back. "Silly. Can't remember the last time you slept late. Soris is already dressed."

"You two have had breakfast?"

"Like an hour ago," Shianni said with a laugh. Her laugh was light and warm. Like her.

"Why'd you let me sleep so late?" Raviathan sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"Thought you might need it. After all, you're going to be up late tonight."

Raviathan returned his cousin's impish grin and kissed her. "Go enjoy your wine while you can."

She left him to eat a simple breakfast of toast and tea. Feeling soft from sleep, Raviathan enjoyed the quiet meditation of eating alone in the morning. He was stepping into his own life, making his own choices. Tomorrow, he would wake with his wife in his arms, and she would finally learn everything about him, about his family. She would learn why they had escaped the Tevinter slavers, the struggles he and his family had lived with, the dangers their children might face. Would she be able to hold their secrets? He had no fear of his wedding day, but tomorrow was another matter. Would she feel betrayed? Maker, please let her understand. I had no choice. I was born with this legacy. Let her understand that I love her, and nothing will change that.

After breakfast, Soris arrived and the two dressed together for their shared day.

"I never thought I'd touch silk let alone wear it," Soris said, his small smile doing nothing to hide his nervousness.

These were the finest clothes they would ever wear. Nesiara had picked out his colors, dark leather and rich, dusky blue silk with silver threading woven in. All Raviathan knew about his wife's wedding clothes was that they were a combination of silk and doeskin. He had no idea what colors she would wear or the cut of her dress. Normally the making of wedding clothes helped bond a daughter with her new mother, but in his mother's absence the task had fallen to Shianni. She had recruited Valora's help and together the three had worked diligently on all the clothing, keeping as many secrets from the grooms as possible.

Soris's clothes were lime green silk and rust colored velvet with gold trim. The color combination resembled jester's motley. "I think Valora is trying to get back at me with this outfit, though I don't know what for."

"The red coloring suits you."

"I guess. It's the green that makes me look like a clown."

Raviathan opened his mouth to comfort his cousin when they heard voices outside. Since he lived at the top of the building, Raviathan was unused to the traffic near Shianni's home. A clatter of voices rose, carrying an urgency that caught both men's attention. Shianni entered with Nessa and Nola in tow. Nessa's arm flung around Shianni for support. Nola stared at Raviathan, her eyes travelling up and down. She blushed and turned away, ratcheting up the tension between them. They hadn't spoken since the night she told him off.

"Shianni?" Dirt smudged her dress, and she was pale. Raviathan got a wet cloth and some soap.

"I'm fine." Her voice shook. Raviathan kissed her temple as he cleaned her.

Nessa blurted, "There were humans here!"

"Humans," Soris said, tension pulling him wire tight. "What…?"

"Nobles. Three of them," Nessa said. She lowered her voice, "Vaughan was here."

Raviathan and Soris froze at the name. Soris asked, "W-what happened?"

"Before we even knew what was going on, Isa told us to run," Nessa said. "Then she was gone. Those men wanted us to go with him. They were after women. Shianni hit him over the head with a bottle. Knocked him out cold."

"Cousin," Raviathan said in shock. Vaughan was here? That demon?

"I didn't think," Shianni said, and she sounded ready to cry. "He grabbed Ness…"

Ness…Raviathan dropped the soapy cloth, fear freezing his brain.

"She's fine," Nola said, still not looking at him. "The two shems left carrying Vaughan."

"I…" Raviathan's voice broke.

"It's okay," Shianni said. "You can go."

"I'll take care of her." Nessa put a hand on Shianni's shoulder.

Raviathan didn't remember leaving the apartment or hurrying through the streets. Half blinded by the harsh, winter sunlight, he ran to the square. Shem violating their home was bad enough, but Vaughan? The presence of the Arl's son was as invasive as a knife in his gut. "Ness!?" For a second, he was startled by the boom in his voice, they way it carried through the square and stopped the buzz of conversation from the gathered elves.

"Here."

He turned toward the sound of her voice and found her leaning against a wall of Valendrian's home. His breath caught, fear stuck raw in his throat. When he held her, he could feel the faint trembling that still effected her. "Are you hurt?"

"No. Not at all. How's Nola?"

Raviathan pulled away, his gaze intent as he examined her. He brushed back the fine slips of her hair that had escaped her braid. She was pale in the thin sunlight, her fine skin almost translucent. "Nola?"

"She was grabbed too. That… that shem was so harsh with her. Shoved his tongue in her mouth. She was gagging. Tossed her around like she was a doll. Oh Maker, I wanted to throw up."

"I… she didn't say anything. Ness…?"

"Really, my love. I'm fine. You look good," she said trying to smile away her nerves.

Raviathan pulled her into his arms. "Please, Ness. You're alright?"

She nodded and leaned into him. "Just let me be here for a minute."

"Anything, my love." His lips brushed across her temple. Raviathan closed his eyes, opened himself to the calm her presence provided. Her hair smelled like soap and water, clean and pure. She relaxed into him, her shaking easing away, and only then did he believe she was unhurt.

She kissed his neck. "I'm going to find Valendrian. Let him know what happened."

Reluctant, Raviathan released her. "Ness, if there's some danger, anything, I want you to run. You hear me? Just get away to safety."

"Yes, my love." She kissed him before she left.

He watched her leave, the rest of the alienage a distant clatter that didn't matter. She stood out, the one clear image among the blur of colors and movement of the other elves. Raviathan leaned against the wall where she had been and rubbed his temples to ease the sharp headache that had appeared.

"Cousin?"

Raviathan stood straight, his arm going around Soris' shoulder. "Did you see Valora?"

"She's fine. A little shaken. Ness?"

Raviathan nodded, "The same." He squeezed Soris, kissed his temple. Humans brought death as they both knew all too well.

"It's…" Soris' voice cracked. "It's going to be alright? Nobles…"

There wasn't a guard in the city who could protect them from the Arl's son. Soris looked about ready to faint. "Don't worry, cousin. Valendrian will know what to do." Raviathan shook his cousin gently. "Come on. They're gone, and it's our wedding day. You've got bigger worries."

"Yeah." Soris cracked a nervous smile. "That worry doesn't seem so big anymore. I'll give Vaughan that."

"We'll send him a rat tail as a thank you. Maybe in his soup."

Soris heaved a sigh to clear out his thoughts. "Wine? I think I could use a cup."

Raviathan nodded more to have something to distract his cousin than want for a drink. The elves gathered under the vhenadahl were jittery. The last attack had been four years ago, and had cost Adaia's life. Before that was the purge.

"Is Ness alright?"

Raviathan turned to see Alorn, her son wrapped up in a blanket. "Fine," he replied. "A little frazzled."

"It's been years since I've seen a shem. I forgot how big they are," she said.

Taedor joined them. "Me too. And their eyes? Creepy. Just so… dull. Like there's nothing there."

"Maker protect us." Alorn made the sign of the sword over her heart. "I had forgotten that too. Whether they're working or murdering, it's the same fish-eyed flat. Like they've got no feeling in them."

"I've been working with them for over a month," Soris added, "and I'm still not used to it. Never know if they're going to yell at you, hit you, or say 'good job'."

"Hey," Raviathan said. "It's our wedding day. I want to remember more than some shems. Let's not let them ruin it for us."

"Of course," Taedor said with a smile. "This will be the first wedding in years where you get to dance more than play."

Alorn hoisted her son up higher on her hip. "The lace sisters of the alienage have been looking forward to your wedding for years."

Raviathan laughed. "I'm not sure how much of a husband I'll be tonight. Drioni has had this look in her eyes for weeks."

Soris was still pale, so Raviathan made excuses and led him out of the crowd in case he was going to be sick. Bad enough Soris was worried about his marriage now this. This was the last thing he needed today. Parasitic shems. They made everything worse. Raviathan glanced at the vhenadahl as they passed, but this time he received no comfort.

The vhenadahl was painted white and red for the wedding. The colors for spring were blue and white, but since this celebration came between the winter and spring annum, the elves had decided to mix the red of winter with the white of spring. As the colors didn't go together during any season, Raviathan found the mix unsettling. The combination of spring and winter patterns clashed, strange in their unnatural jumble.

"Cousin, there's another human."

Raviathan's stomach clenched. Of all days, why today? Why couldn't these damn shems just leave them alone? Raviathan found the man leaning against an apartment building in the shade, casually surveying the alienage. The shem was a northerner, darker than Raviathan. His dark skin contrasted with his steel armor and pale cream cloak. Another noble? Not the right look. Not a guard either. "You think he's from before?"

"Don't know, but Rav, he's armed. W-what are you going to do?" Soris asked, trotting up to match Raviathan's quick march.

"Kill him."

"Wh-what? Cousin, you can't…"

"Oh, come on, Soris. I don't even have a knife on me. The three of us are going to have a nice, friendly chat, and if that doesn't work, I'll get him over to the bridge and push him off. With that heavy armor, he should sink."

"Rav. You're crazy. You can't…"

The dark human's gaze fell on Raviathan with an interest that gave the elf pause. Raviathan tried to shake off the odd feeling, but his fear rose, making him wish he had a weapon. What did this man know? "Ser. This is the alienage. It's no place for humans."

"I am well aware this is an alienage," the human said. He was older, mid forties Raviathan guessed, with his black hair pulled back into a short ponytail. He wore one gold earring in a style found in eastern Thedas-Free Marches, Rivain, or Antiva-but no accent marked his mild voice.

"Then you know you shouldn't be here. The gate is just over there. Ser."

"I have no intention of leaving." The human's attention was too sharp. He hadn't just wandered in, not that many shems did, but he was here for a reason. Those two humans Raviathan had hurt a month ago wouldn't have the money to hire a sell sword to go after him. Bounty hunter for the templars? That made no sense. Raviathan still wasn't openly practicing as Solyn had.

Why? Why this difficult shem here on his wedding day? "There is no reason for you to be here. Ser, this is a day of celebration. Your presence here is not only unnecessary, it is unwelcome. Would you please leave?"

"So persistent." The dark human smiled, which only bothered Raviathan more. They both knew an unarmed elf against an armed human was no match. "What will you do?"

What was with this shem? "You can't be this dense. What is your purpose here?"

"For now, my purpose is my own business."

Considering how heavy the shem's armor was and his age, Raviathan was sure he could out run the warrior. Pick a fight, then lure him out. Raviathan circled so his back was to the gate. "I said get out. You've no business here."

The dark human's smile never left. In fact, he seemed pleased. Did he come here to pick a fight? "I'm armed and armored. I refuse to leave. What will you do?"

Soris shifted from foot to foot, ready to bolt. Deciding to go for the unexpected, Raviathan surged forward, putting all the weight he could into shoving the shem. The push forced the human back a few paces, as much a show of strength as Raviathan was capable of. He danced back in case the shem went for his sword, and growled, "Bring it on, shem."

Soris waved his hands, backing away. "Try not to die!" He ran, yelling over his shoulder, "I'll get Valendrian." 

Raviathan expected anger, or at least indignation. The smile he was getting was only confusing him more. Was this shem laughing at him?

"What's going on, Rav?" Three elves broke off from the crowd but kept a wary distance from the swordsman.

"Rav," the human said, musing over the name. "You are Adaia's son."

Raviathan straightened in surprise. Fear chilled him. He cursed himself for giving away the truth. He should have controlled his reaction. Too late now. "You knew her?"

"You resemble her quite a bit, you know."

Who was this man? Feeling trapped, Raviathan struggled against the fear that snaked up his spine. This man knew too much about him. Fallout from his mother's legacy. In that moment, Raviathan wondered about his wife's safety, the safety of his future children, his grandchildren.

When Raviathan remained silent, the warrior said, "Your mother trained you, did she not?"

Fear stabbed at Raviathan again. From his childhood, he remembered the crack of thin ice under his feet, how one misstep could suck him under the Drakon River, to be dragged into the black water, drowned, and out to a frozen sea. He felt that same fear now with this man. To say nothing would be an admission. To say the wrong thing would be a trap. This man knew his mother, knew what she was. Was he here for blackmail? But Raviathan didn't have anything of value. To force him into service of some gang? Fear for Nesiara and his family rose. "No. She died before I learned anything."

"Hey, Rav. You need some help getting rid of this shem?" The three elves walked up to stand behind Raviathan, four pairs of hostile, jewel bright eyes pinned on the human.

"I told you, shem," Raviathan said. "You don't belong here. Get out."

"Duncan!" Valendrian's jovial voice called out, breaking the tension that hung in the air. "How are you, old friend?"

"You know this shem?" one of the elves asked, mystified as their hahren shook hands with the warrior.

"Watch your language," Valendrian admonished. "I will have no insults to my guest."

The stunned elf gave Duncan a hasty bow in apology. Raviathan squeezed his friend's shoulder in thanks before sending the three back to the festivities. Soris remained close, his hand comforting against Raviathan's back.

"I apologize. Ser," Raviathan said. "Had you said…"

"No. I take no offense," Duncan said. "I kept you in ignorance."

"Grooms." Valendrian turned his attention to the two men. "You have wives and festivities to return to, and I must catch up with my old friend."

Raviathan wondered at his hahren's phrasing, but he nodded and took Soris's hand.

"Cousin," Soris whispered, "you really scare me sometimes."

"Sorry. Those nobles got to me."

"I'm glad we weren't there. Rav…" Soris gripped his hand painfully hard. "I… the nobles… what if…"

Raviathan pulled his cousin aside where he wouldn't be in full view of the other elves. "It's alright, cousin," he whispered, holding him tightly.

"Don't scare me, Rav. Picking fights. I'm…I'm already…"

"I'm sorry." He glanced over and found that the shem was still watching him. Whatever momentary respite from his nerves Raviathan had gotten from the presence of his cousin disappeared. An old anger formed like embers in his chest. He ran his fingers gently through Soris' hair and remembered back thirteen years ago when he'd held his cousin during the last purge. The screams and smell of burning elves. Ash, smoke, and elves—faintly like cedar.

"Rav?"

"Fine. I'm fine. We've got a few hours. Do you want to lie down?" Watching.

"I don't want to be alone."

"Then let's get some food to settle your stomach. How about that?" Still watching.

Unnerved, Raviathan led his cousin back the rest of their brethren. What reason could Valendrian have to tolerate this shem? "It'll be alright, Soris."

"Don't know why we're having the wedding today. Bad luck."

"Well, maybe we got our bad luck for the day out of the way. It can only get better from here on, right?"

Soris nodded, his head bowed and eyes darting around the square. Raviathan understood all too well how his cousin felt. Trying to watch everything as if that would keep harm at bay. He'd seen Soris do that when he was tense or under attack. Raviathan brought his cousin a cup of wine, hoping it would calm him. If Soris didn't start looking less green, he was definitely going to faint during the ceremony. Raviathan kept rubbing his cousin's back and joked with the other elves. Gradually, Soris regained his color.

After three more dances, Cyrion joined them, grinning broadly at his son and nephew. "Son. Oh, my boy. You look splendid. You too, Soris."

"Thank you, uncle."

"I feel like I should be in a parade in these clothes." Raviathan ran a hand over the silk of his shirt. "They're so fine."

Cyrion opened his mouth to reply when he noticed Duncan. Though Duncan had stopped staring, his attention had remained on Raviathan.

"Father?" Raviathan glanced between the two of them.

"N-nothing, son."

"Do you know him?" Raviathan's fear came back. Of course his father knew this shem. His father knew a great many more humans from his work, but this shem heralded bad news.

Troubled, Cyrion returned his son's gaze. "Not well. He was at my wedding. I didn't expect to see him here again."

"Your wedding?" Raviathan glanced back, saw the human watching him, and felt dread settle like stone in his stomach. "Father, I don't like the feeling of this. Let's cancel the wedding."

"Son…"

"It's bad luck not to have a wedding on an annum anyway. After all the trouble today… Ness and I will talk tonight, have the wedding in two months like we should."

"No," his father said quickly, panic in his voice. "It's best if you do this today. I…I will speak to Valendrian. I'm sure everything's fine."

Raviathan frowned at his father's retreating back. Duncan was still watching him, and Raviathan felt cold in a way that had nothing to do with winter. Enough of these shems. Soris was spooked. His wife, cousin, and friends were mistreated. And now his father was scared. An armed shem didn't belong here. Frustrated, Raviathan stalked over to Duncan, eyeing the dark human with open mistrust. "Who are you?"

"I thought I made that clear." When Raviathan's glare hardened, Duncan smiled in return. "I am a Grey Warden."

Raviathan's eyes narrowed. "Funny. Didn't see your griffin when you came in."

"So you know about us. That's a start."

Start of what? "Stop pretending." The Grey Wardens were mythic warriors, but they had died out with their griffins centuries ago.

Duncan bent at the waist, his arms folded across his chest. "And what proof do you require?"

Raviathan leaned back, uncertain. "The darkspawn are gone. Why this game?"

"Are you so sure of that, lad?"

Raviathan cocked his head, not sure if he was being taken in for a fool or not. "Why are you here?"

"I have business here," Duncan said as he straightened.

"Why are you watching me?"

Duncan smiled again. Raviathan wanted to punch him. "All in due time."

"No. I'm not interested in games or guessing."

"Rav!"

He turned to see Nesiara standing at the edge of the crowd. Raviathan could feel the beat of his heart increase. She was beautiful in the doe skin and white silk wedding dress. Pale and gold as a beam of sunlight. He didn't want this shem to see her. No hungry shem for that matter. They didn't belong here. Not in his home. He glared back at Duncan. "Do any harm to my family," he said quietly, "and no one will ever see you again."

He didn't wait for Duncan's reply. That shem was probably still smiling. Doubtless the warrior thought he could take an inexperienced elf easily. Raviathan could use that against the warrior if he had to. He knew more than one way to skin a cat.

"Come, Ness," he said wrapping an arm around her waist.

"Who is that man?"

"Says he's a Grey Warden."

Nesiara glanced back in surprise. "I thought the Order died out centuries ago."

"He's probably lying."

"Valendrian wouldn't hold a liar in such high esteem." She looked back again. "I never thought I'd see a Grey Warden in real life."

"Ness, love, you're not helping my nerves here."

"Nerves, huh?" She bit his neck gently, then again at the base. He laughed, a pleasant warmth chasing away his fears and letting calm settle into him. "Then let's dance. It's our wedding day, my love. I'll be damned if I let some humans ruin it."

Raviathan's eyes widened. "I don't think I've ever heard you use that word."

"Come on." She dragged him under the vhenadahl. The colors from dozens of stained glass ornaments splashed the square. "Taedor. Would you play? It's time for us to remember this is a celebration."

A few elves cheered, clapped, or raised their drinks in toast. Raviathan whirled his wife around, her laughter filling his chest, dispelling his fears. Her body, as slender and supple as a sapling, was real and warm in his hands. Her smile, the blue of her eyes, the cream of her skin, were the summit of the Maker's will. Make the Fade real, craft the chaos of energy into a physical form, and she danced before him as perfect as the light of his own heart. Nothing would tear this asunder. Whatever that shem's plans were, he couldn't force Raviathan to do anything. Though he might be a lowly elf, Raviathan wasn't defenseless. This, what he had now, was worth all that he was to protect.

More elves applauded, couples pairing together. Taedor started playing, the fiddle chords humming through Raviathan as if he were the strings. For the moment, the dappled sun and shades of colors that graced over Nesiara as she spun were more real than the world outside their home. This is our home. Our day. Our lives. Nesiara fueled his heart, the light of her spirit touching his own. Ever after this day, we will be bound.

Red and green flashed out of the corner of Raviathan's eye. Soris and his bride were dancing as well, their steps deliberate. Shianni's laughter rang out as she danced with a younger boy. This is the way we were meant to be, thought Raviathan. Free. Without shems, we could have the peace we deserve. The Chantry and its templars wouldn't exist. All his people would have magic again, live eternal with in communion with the Fade. Instead of decades, he would have centuries to dance with his bride. 

"Enough, new wife," Drioni said. "It's time to let the old dames have a bit of fun."

Eolas was already in full swing with Soris, the groom relaxing in her company.

Nesiara laughed, bowing to her elder. "Of course, granny."

Taedor winked at him and started a fast jig. Raviathan took Drioni's hand, ducked under her arm not quite avoiding a pinch on the rear, then spun her back into position. Half the game was trying to keep her hands as busy as her feet, the other half in keeping up. While Drioni and Eolas were the most infamous, many of the alienage's grannies partook in the game of wearing out the grooms.

"Don't worry, young buck," Drioni said patting his cheek in parting. Her flush made her skin glow, dropping twenty years of age. "If you're tired tonight, lie back and let her do all the work. I'm sure you'll have that much left in you."

When she turned, Raviathan took the opportunity to pinch her, a small revenge for the years of her play. "Ho-oh!" Drioni wagged a finger at him, her smile wicked. She called out, "Ladies, have at this one."

"That's cruel," Raviathan said, and kissed the hand of his new partner, Eolas.

"Cruel indeed," Drioni said with a snort. "Old wives protect the new. We want that bride of yours to be able to walk tomorrow."

The music switched from a jig to waltz, so Raviathan held the dame closer for the slower music. Taedor was being sympathetic in his choices of music. "Ah, Rav. You've done a lot of growing up these last few months. Always were a bit beyond your years. Even as a tot. Your mother and aunt would both be proud."

"Thank you, granny."

"Do you still miss them?"

"Sometimes. It doesn't… I don't know how to describe it. I remember them all the time. I think about what they would say to me, or what they would think, but it doesn't hurt anymore."

"As it should be. Their memories are friends now. Pain is hard to let go, but you have to or you'll miss out on all the other gifts in this life. And that serene smile of yours proves it."

Soris yipped, and Raviathan could easily imagine what Drioni was doing to him. At least Drioni would help keep his mind off the shems. For all her mischief, she and her sister were two of the kindest elves he knew.

"Granny, was it hard to let go of your child?"

Eolas didn't miss a step as they spun under the vhenadahl. "At first. The way she was cut out of my life, it was like a death. Hard enough for the first, but when the templars came for Drioni’s… Sometimes I wish I had taken them and run to the Dalish. I couldn't have guessed that magic was so strong in our family to take three children. At least they have each other and a cousin. Protection in family. That's a comfort. Our babies are together, like my sister and me."

"You weren't scared of their magic? Not ever?"

"No," Eolas said, her brow furrowed in annoyance at the thought. "Ridiculous boy. They were our babies."

"You were a good mother, Eolas. It's a pity you didn't have her for longer."

"Mm. I wish I really could be a granny. Wait and see, Rav. That's the best part. You can spoil your grandchildren rotten, and your child can't say boo." At his soft smile, Eolas squinted at him, measuring. "You're already looking forward to that. My dear boy, you're growing up too fast. Won't live long at the rate you're going."

Raviathan chuckled. "Thinking about summer doesn't make the day warmer."

"Sometimes, dear boy, I worry about you. We elves used to live forever. Now all we have are a few decades short of a century. Our lives got squished down to a few years, so we had to use them up faster. Don't shorten your life by growing up too fast. Once the years are spent, you can't get them back."

"I'm only eighteen, granny. Hardly ready for a cane."

"Eighteen my ass."

"Yes, and you should get your hand off mine. I've got you figured out, Eolas. You're just as bad as your sister."

She cackled. "Well. You'll be officially claimed within the hour. Let me enjoy while I can. Keeps me young, my dear boy."

The music came to an end when Mother Boann arrived in the company of Valendrian. Raviathan gave Eolas a hug then looked about for his bride. After Vaughan, he shouldn't let himself lose sight of her so easily. The edge of panic started to cut into his mind when he saw her speaking with that shem. Maker's ass. Why couldn't she be more afraid of them? He didn't want to get close to the shem again. "Ness. It's time."

She curtsied to the pretender before joining him. "Ness. Really. Why are you being nice to him?"

Nesiara scoffed and took his hand. "He's not a bad person, Rav. You'd realize that if you'd be a little more open minded."

Soris and Valora were making their way to the stage where Mother Boann and Valendrian waited. Raviathan squeezed his bride's hand. "We are not going to fight right before we're married."

"That's right. I'd be so much easier if you just agreed with me and be done with it. I'm right after all."

Raviathan smiled, pulling her in for a kiss before they took the stage. "Of course. But I'm right too."

"Yes, husband." She kissed him back. "This is your last chance to run off to find the Dalish."

"Yours too. Do I need to track you down?"

"No. Just marry me."

Raviathan led the way up the stage, his fingers entwined with his wife's. He'd never been this close to Mother Boann before. She was a short, stout woman but still taller than any elf. Plain for a human. Over the past month, Raviathan had been getting used to dullness of human eyes, the rough texture of their skin. Females were rare around the docks, only the occasional prostitute or vendor who were willing to brave shiploads of desperate men.

Mother Boann started her speech. Raviathan settled in for the tedium. He focused on the thick wrinkles that permanently marked the back of the Mother's neck. Humans had short necks. Some didn't even have a neck, their heads forming out of their shoulders. After a few minutes, Raviathan's eyes glazed over as he went into his own head to wait out the ceremony. Why were they compelled into these shem traditions? How did the Dalish perform wedding ceremonies? The Mother's voice droned on amidst the rustle of the vhenadahl's leaves and the occasional cough. Raviathan was dozing on his feet when he heard the clanking of metal.

The far off rhythmic march of armored boots chilled Raviathan's blood. He had never heard anything like it, but he knew what it meant. His brain snapped to alertness. They should have called the wedding off. Once the shems started, they never left elves alone.

"They're coming for us," he whispered. They needed to run. Come on Rav, move. You have to move. He took a hesitant step forward, his brain frozen in fear of what was coming for them. Nesiara gasped, and he realized he was squeezing her hand too tightly. The Mother kept up her stupid chanting oblivious to the sound. Raviathan looked at the sea of elven faces gathered under the vhenadahl, faces too bright, too expectant of the celebration to understand.

"Run." No one heard him. Isa had been the only one smart enough to stay hidden. "Run." Nesiara stared at him still not understanding the danger. "They're coming. We have to get out of here." His wife's family had been smart enough to escape a purge. Would he be able to keep her from danger now?

Shrieks from the ends of the crowd started getting the attention Raviathan wasn't able to. Now everyone heard the marching. The elves gathered together, clutched at their loved ones in panic. "Not a purge," a woman wailed.

"We've done nothing to warrant a purge," a man said but that eased no one's terror.

A young man ran from the west side of the main street. "There are guards coming! They've closed the portcullis!"

Trapped. We're trapped. More cries of a purge sounded from a dozen mouths as the elves surged around the vhenadahl.

The lords were there. One of them grabbed Miram. She struggled when he pulled her against him, one hand squeezing her breast, the other clutching her sex through her dress. She yelled as much in pain as in humiliation and tried to force his hands away. "She's a bit old," Lord Jonaley said looking the woman over.

"Still a pretty little wench though," Braden replied.

"There are lots of pretty wenches. No reason to settle."

"Fine." Braden pushed her roughly away so she hit a building before falling. Her dark eyes glittered in fury. If she had a dagger, she would have buried it in the lord without a second thought.

"Now, now," Vaughan said with a laugh. "She can always be a bit of sport for the guards. Let them chase her around the barracks for a time."

"My Lords!" Mother Boann was livid in fury. "That you would do this at all, but in front of a Chantry Mother!"

Vaughan snorted. "You indulge these pets of yours far too much. Dress them up for tea if you want to, they're still just knife ears."

"The Chantry will hear of this," she spat. "On a wedding day no less. This is beyond shameful."

With startling athleticism for such a large man, Vaughan leapt up to the platform. Instinctively, Raviathan pushed Nesiara behind him. All humor was gone as the current Arl glared down at the Mother. The menace in his low voice carried the threat of the city's army commanded at his whim. "The Chantry is going to stay out of this. The Mothers aren't all so stupid as you. Creating an incident over a few knife ears?" He smirked at her with all the warmth of a sadist at play. "Go back to your superior. Your time with your pets is over. Now that I'm Arl, we won't be indulging these little rats like we used to."

"You won't get away with this," Mother Boann said, but she was already cowed.

He laughed in her face. "Who's going to stop me? The guards I command? Stupid woman." Vaughan turned to his friends. "Pick who you want." The guards had the square surrounded as solid as a dark wall closing them in.

Lord Braden tossed Nola to a guard who held her fast then looked about the faces. He moved through the crowd tossing those aside who couldn't get away fast enough. "Where is she," he muttered, barely audible over the sounds of panic. "Where is she!?" he bellowed.

"Sister," Eolas yelled when Drioni was shoved and fell to the ground.

Vaughan looked upon the drama impassively. "Scores of knife ears. Why is he so bothered with that one?"

"Who knows," Jonaley replied sounding bored.

"Bad form that," Vaughan commented. "I was hoping this little adventure would help cure him."

"Eh. We still get to have a bit of fun out of this. Maybe we should take the grooms as well," Jonaley said with an appreciative leer. "They're pretty enough. We could put them in your mother's old frocks. Chain them up in the basement. Have their wives watch. I'd be fun to break them in with a captive audience."

"No point in appetizers when we have enough dishes for the main course. Speaking of which," Vaughan said turning back to the couples, "take a look at the lovely bride."

"Touch her and I'll kill you," Raviathan said.

Unimpressed, Vaughan smirked at him. "Don't worry. She's going to enjoy the feel a real man instead of a little cock rider like you."

Raviathan's attention was caught for an instant when he heard Valora shriek and Soris yell out, "No!" He barely had time to register Vaughan's movement when blackness fell.


	14. Married Life – Dirty Hands

"Cousin, please wake up."

A burning throb covered half of Raviathan's face. The fine grain of old wood against his cheek was the only tie he had to gravity. The rest of the world insisted on twisting about like it was trying to buck him off. Dizzy with pain, he tapped his hand against the platform hoping that was enough of a signal for Soris to give him a minute. 

Angry shouts swarmed in the distance like a wasp nest had fallen in the middle of the alienage. Maker his face hurt. Not since his mother's training had he experienced pain like this. Why…? Raviathan bolted up. The pain in his face slammed a wave of nausea that threatened to turn up the contents of his stomach. Nesiara. "Where is she?"

Everything looked too bright. Raviathan winced as the glare of sunlight shot past his eyes and straight into his brain. Soris's eyes were red. "They took her. Shianni and Valora too."

With Soris's help, Raviathan struggled to his feet. They were alone on the stage. Valendrian stood in the center of a large crowd of elves across the other side of the square, his voice ringing out over their protests. That shem stood with him. For a second, the light became a bright, indistinct glare, turning the alienage sideways. Raviathan swayed, clutching at Soris to stay on his feet. "What happened to the Mother?"

"She left. Rav, what are we going to do?"

"Would she have gone for help?"

"Mother Boann? To who? Vaughan commands the city guards. The templars won't get involved."

As he walked, Raviathan's vision cleared, his steps becoming steadier. Ness. "How long was I out?"

"I'm not sure. Twenty minutes?"

Did he still have time? "I'm going after them."

"Rav? You… you can't. It's not… possible."

Raviathan pushed the gathered elves out of the way to get to Valendrian. A few turned in anger but stayed silent when they saw him. That shem stood there, useless. Valendrian spied them and beckoned. "You're awake. Your father has gone to the bann he works for to ask for help."

"I'm going after them," Raviathan growled. His voice didn’t sound like his own anymore. Lower, deeper, his voice carried over the shouts easily. 

Valendrian's face fell.

Elva screeched, "You can't! You'd risk us all for a few? You go, and we'll have a purge for sure. Vaughan isn't going to show any restraint now that his father is gone."

Valendrian raised his hand for silence as a dozen more elves added their voices to the cacophony. "Elva, this act of aggression cannot be allowed to stand. That Vaughan would do this… in the open with no fear or consequences. As it is, another purge may be inevitable."

The momentary silence broke as scores of elves shouted out. There was no one voice to unite them, no single view of what should be done. Some gasped at the idea of a purge. Others raged against the injustice of the invasion.

Their voices pounded through Raviathan's skull, further setting him on edge. All of this was wasting time his wife and kin didn't have. For the first time in Raviathan's life, Valendrian's authority would have no impact on his decisions.

Raviathan turned to leave. He had taken three steps, when an hand on his arm pulled him back. Raviathan snarled at the shem, ready to cut the man's hand off if only he had a knife. "Back off, shem."

"Rav," Valendrian's voice warned. 

Before he could finish, Raviathan cut him off. "What do you think they're going to do? Every minute here is wasted."

Duncan shook his arm. "And you think to rescue them unarmed? Where is your head, lad?"

"You'll not stop me." If he could, Raviathan would put a dagger in this shem's stomach.

"I'm not trying to. You will get further if you dress as a servant." Duncan's advice was so unexpected, Raviathan felt it like a slap. "Get changed, and quickly. I'll lend you my sword and bow."

"Where is Isa?" Valendrian called out. "She can take you there."

~o~O~o~

"Go into the grounds. The side entrance for servants is on the right. Second door. Goes to the kitchen"

If Isa hadn't looked sick with fear, Raviathan would have kissed her. "Any advice?"

She shook her head. "I didn't come here often. Uh, watch out for dogs. They were fond of mabari."

"Get going," Raviathan said. Isa fled through the streets like a mouse searching for cover. In seconds, she was gone from sight. "Calm, Soris. Stay behind me. Let me clear a room before you follow."

"Okay."

Raviathan glanced back at his cousin. They had argued about a purge on the way over, but it didn't matter as far as Raviathan was concerned. Maybe their hahren could figure a diplomatic way out, but as long as Vaughan was in charge, there would be no safety anymore. Not for any of them.

They hurried through the grounds. The estate was quiet. Not even a guard at the entrance. Vaughan's confidence that no one would challenge him betrayed his arrogance. That arrogance was the only window of hope Raviathan and Soris had to exploit. Perhaps Duncan had a point that a couple of servants wouldn't be noticed. Soris carried their two weapons, borrowed from Duncan, wrapped up in a thin blanket so they wouldn't attract attention on the way over. 

Raviathan took a shaky breath outside of the servants' entrance to the kitchens. There was no going back. Once Vaughan invaded the alienage, the laws that allowed elves their own space free from the pain of shems was gone. How fragile those laws appeared to him now. 

What would he find though? Guards on the other side of the door? Would they have to kill servants as well? People who were innocent? Would the city guards interfere? How far would they get? The glare of the over bright sun was strong in the courtyard without the high alienage walls all around. Raviathan felt naked without the walls, vulnerable. Would his people ever be safe again?

The door was unlocked. "Are you ready, cousin?"

"Rav? Will this work?"

No? Even if Vaughan thought nothing of elves, the odds were so far against them Raviathan thought they had a better chance of touching the moon. He opened the door feeling like his blood had turned to shards of ice. The small room was empty. Just a few benches. Light from high set windows and a cook's fire lit the room beyond the open archway. The room was fragrant with the smell of lunch cooking

Tense, Raviathan jumped when he heard a slap. "You filthy knife ear! How long does it take to peel potatoes? Day after day," another slap, "and you're still worthless."

Raviathan leaned around to look through the archway and found a beefy human holding an elf by the front of his shirt. The elf was bruised and bloody. The human's broad back faced him. Raviathan motioned for Soris to stand back. Careful, making his steps quick but light, Raviathan padded forward taking a long knife from the wide table laden with food. The other elf saw him, eyes widening slightly, but said nothing. Raviathan gripped the knife, heart thudding. Couldn't risk trying to knock the cook out. He'd raise the alarm. Had to be fast. 

The elf winced as the man drew his arm back for another blow. This shem was larger than Raviathan and the other elf put together. Raviathan slid forward. The human was just a cook. Had never wronged him. But he would, Raviathan knew. If Raviathan had been hired as a servant, this cook would turn those blows on him instead. We’re nothing to these shems. Raviathan took the knife, gripping it in both hand, and drove it down into the human's left lung. Deep. 

The elf collapsed then scrambled out of the way.

Instead of falling, the human staggered about, reaching dumbly behind him. He was too fat, too thick to reach the knife hilt. He turned and saw Raviathan for the first time. The man had heavy jowls, his head sitting atop his shoulders with only a thick roll suggesting a neck. His eyes were small, shocked in his meaty face.

The elf swung a log at the back of the cook's head, and Raviathan no longer had to look into the eyes of the first person he had ever killed.

"Terran."

Raviathan tore his eyes away from the spreading pool of red at the human's back. "What?"

"Terran. My name."

"Rav."

Soris came out of hiding, pale even by the glow of firelight. Terran nodded to him in greeting. "You're looking for the women? Milord's got them upstairs in his private rooms. I think you still have time since they only just got here." He shook his head. "If you get them, run. None of us are safe here anymore. With Urien, it was bad, but not… not like this."

"Wi-," Raviathan's voice cracked. "Will the servants go to the guards?"

"The elves'll run." He kicked the body of the cook. The body jiggled with the impact as if Terran had kicked a sack of lard. "This shem had it coming. Most of 'em here do."

"Can you help us at all?" Raviathan asked. "A map, some details of the building?"

Terran's gaze darted around the empty room. He turned his neck to listen to the low speech coming from the next room. "Okay. Suppose I owe you," he whispered. "Next room is the guard's dining hall." He sketched out a map with flour on the table, explained each room as he created lines in the white powder. "Experienced guards left with Urien. But you'll still need to deal with the rest that's stayed on. You can try and sneak your women out through the servants' passage, but it's tricky. Easy to get turned around and trapped. And Vaughan. I don't know. I don't know what you'll do. The guards'll find you soon enough." Terran glanced at Raviathan. "I don't know what you'll be doing to get them out of this. Or yourselves. Suicide if you ask me."

Soris whimpered, his knuckles white as he clung to the wrapped sword scabbard. "We were told to dress as servants. That we'd get farther if we did."

"I doubt most guards'll notice a new servant or two. Those who could signed up with the king or left. You can't get those women out by pretending they’re servants though."

"Go on," Raviathan said to Terran. "Probably best you get out of the city then."

The elf nodded. "Make watch over you." Terran cut the dead cook's purse, and left with a hastily gathered sack of foodstuffs.

"Um, see if you can push him under the table," Raviathan said. "Then stack some sacks against him. Hide the body a bit." The first man I ever killed, Raviathan thought as he stared at the lumpy corpse. "I'll check out the next room. If you hear fighting, and you don't think you can help, just run."

"Y-yeah." Soris put a foot on the body and pushed. Brown spread across the corpse's pants. "Ugh. What…?"

"He's dead. That's what happens. Just… do what you can, okay?"

At least Soris wasn't thinking about his fear. He pulled his shirt up to cover his nose, got on the ground, and pushed with both feet to slowly scoot the body under the table.

The lard heavy shem left a wet stain on the floor. Soris grunted in disgust at the smell. The first person he had ever killed, thought Raviathan. He had seen death many times. Death stalked the alienage like starved wolves in winter, but this was the first that he was the sole cause. Not a disease, or cold, or neglect. Not the consequence of another’s blade. Raviathan stared at the body, seeing shapes and colors as the world unkitted itself in his mind, but not a person.

The loose bowels of the dead never made it into the tales, heroic or otherwise. Memories of his mother’s death rose at the back of his memory, the pain becoming fresh as a wound reopened. The dead have no dignity. Who had he been? Did he have family? There was more to this man than simply a cook who beat elves. Was he funny? Did he save scraps for the arl's dogs? Had he ever loved? Was he a disappointment to his parents? All that he had been was lost. Now he was a fat lump smelling of shit. A joke with no way to hide. 

Raviathan listened at the door. Low voices. He took the sword Soris had carried and stowed it near the door. Time to see if he could pass as a servant. There weren't many in the dining hall. Three guards drunk at midday.

"You there, elf. Dry as a witch's snatch here. Get us something."

"Yes, milord." Raviathan kept his head down and hurried across the room to the small door that Terran said led to the alcohol storage. So, he passed as a servant to drunken guards at least.

"Did you see that bride? The pretty one? When Vaughan's done with her, maybe we can keep her in the barracks for a few weeks."

"Heh. Not much 'll be left of 'er wid all of us takin' turns."

"Still. Put a collar around her neck. Pet her when she learns a new trick. Couple weeks of training and she'll present willing as a bitch in heat."

"I'd like to do that with the red head. Muzzle her first though."

Raviathan could feel his heart pumping hard in his chest. He put a trembling hand over his heart, felt it hammer through his clothes. These men would never leave them alone. Even if he could sneak his wife, kin, and friends out, there was nothing to stop Vaughan and his guards from coming back again. And again. There wouldn't be any end.

His eyes caught the rat poison piled in small dishes around the edges of the room. Raviathan grabbed a half empty whiskey bottle. The shems knew they could do whatever they wanted. Shems never had any fear. They took and stole. Greedy, grasping, and cruel. Raviathan carefully funneled one plate of rat poison after another into the bottle. They take from each other. They take from us. And why not? We can't stop them. He shook the bottle, watching as the powder dissolved. We have nothing but our anger and shame.

"Blasted knife ear. What took you so long?"

"Sorry, milord." Raviathan kept his head down, eyes lowered.

"Lazy knife ears."

Raviathan poured the liquid into each mug, bowed, and retreated back to the kitchen.

"Andraste's tits! This is some hard stuff."

With the door shut behind him, Raviathan felt calm. No more indecision. Raviathan's eyes slid to the bubbling stew over the fire.

Soris dropped the last bag that would cover the dead shem from a casual glance. "Rav?"

"I have a plan." The words made everything final. Energized, Raviathan hurried to his cousin. His mind sped up and went blank at the same time. Action without thought. Tying a scrap of cloth around Soris' head, Raviathan said, "You're going to serve lunch. You're going to make sure every guard who comes in gets a big bowl full of that stew." Raviathan dusted Soris' shirt with flour and smeared a bit of gravy across his cheek. "Go. Tell them lunch is ready."

"R-"

"Just go."

Once Soris was out the door, Raviathan hunted around for the bottle he knew had to be around. Where, where would that shem keep it? The pantry? Had to be away from the food, or the poison could contaminate everything. Not much time. Raviathan hunted through a box of dried herbs, canned fruits, and oats before he found the brown bottles. Careful, he smelled the contents of the first bottle-a fragrance of warm hay with an irritating undertone-and smiled.

Raviathan tasted the stew. Rich broth. It had been ages since Raviathan had tasted beef. The shem had been a decent chef. He added a cup of sugar to balance out the bitterness of the distilled sweet clover. How to hide the formaldehyde that acted as an agent? The herbs. Rosemary and other aromatics. A thick, black beer would bring out the bitterness again, but it would also distract from the flavor. Taste. Still too bitter to cover the poison. A jar of canned apples. Another taste. Syrupy sweet. The rest of the whiskey. Three full bottles of concentrated rat poison. Raviathan stirred the mix. A little flour to thicken. He placed a few drops on his tongue to taste then thoroughly rinsed his mouth. The taste was unusual. Odd, but not bad. The beer and apple was more interesting than he expected.

The stew ready, Raviathan tied a burlap fragment around his head as he had Soris. He pat a bit of flour on his face and hands to help conceal his skin. While the drunken guards hadn't cared, the others would likely take note of an exotic Northerner enough to recognize him as one of the grooms. The flour didn't do more than make him look sloppy, but he would look like he belonged in a kitchen. Raviathan grabbed the sharpest knives in the kitchen, his agitation growing as he waited for Soris. What in the Maker's name was taking him so long? Unless he got caught. Raviathan listened at the door expecting to hear the marching of boots, but there was only the continued joking from the three guards.

Raviathan stirred the stew again then paced. When he was about ready to charge into the hall, sword at the ready, Soris came in. "What took you so long," Raviathan whispered in anger.

"So long? Maybe ten minutes. Anyway, the guards are coming like you wanted."

"Fine. Help me carry the pot out."

"What… is it going to kill them?"

"No," Raviathan whispered as they both grabbed the handle of the heavy cauldron. He lowered his voice. "Not quickly enough anyway. It'll make them sleepy, disoriented. If we do fight, they'll bleed out quickly."

"Cous-"

"Shh." Guards began to fill the hall. "Get the bread and cheese. Bowls and whatever they need. I'll bring up some beer."

Soris nodded, grunting as they heaved the cauldron on the serving table. Raviathan hurried back to the storage room. Finding the same heavy black beer the cook had been drinking before, Raviathan poured in every last bottle of poison that had been in the pantry. The hall was half full of guards by the time he returned.

"Here, what's this?" a guard asked spying the keg Raviathan was carrying.

"Gift from milord. For a job well done."

"Ha!" the guard said turning to his fellows. "I's told ya. Vaughan knows how to treat a man, he does."

"Just you remember where your loyalties lie. Urien isn't going to be gone forever."

"Aye, but no harm in enjoying the spoils while he's gone. You, elf, fetch us some mugs."

"Yes, ser." Raviathan gave a quick bow and left for the kitchen. He wasn't sure, but a few of the guards had kept their eyes on him. Did they recognize him? "They want mugs. Are you okay with handling things here?"

"Yeah. Easier than I thought it'd be."

"Stay on your toes." Raviathan grabbed a skin of oil and the wrapped sword. "If you think one of the guards recognizes you, just run." He tossed fruit, cheese, and bread on a platter. "I'm going to take the lords their lunch."

"You need help?"

"No. Keep the guards distracted for as long as you can. More food or beer. Whatever they want." Raviathan held the sword under the platter, the skin over one arm.

"Got it. Good luck, cousin."

Back out in the dining hall, the guards were raising cups to their lord's health. "Elf, where are those mugs?"

"The boy will be right out with them," Raviathan said keeping his head down.

"What's this then?"

"Lunch for milord and his guests."

As he left, Raviathan heard, "That elf look familiar to you?"

"Just a knife ear."

"Yeah, but how many dark skinned elves are around here? After this morning, I don't…"

The door shut behind him. Oh Maker, just let them drink the beer and forget about me. Raviathan walked briskly knowing a run would give him away. Maker, please don't let me be too late. The guard walking down the hall set his heart racing. He dared not look the guard in the face, but the strain of uncertainty made him jumpy. He bowed to the guard as the man passed by. Thank the Maker servants were invisible.

"You there, elf."

Andraste’s burning shit! Had this man been one of the guards at the alienage? Was he recognized? He dared not look the guard in the face. "Yes, milord?"

The guard's feet were pointed in his direction. "Lunch is served?"

"Yes, milord. Beef stew. Beer as a gift for this morning's services."

The guard grunted, his steps quicker as he left for the dining hall. The food on the platter was shaking as Raviathan continued to the main stairway. Was she alright? Had they touched her? Maker please, please. Not my Ness. Please, Maker. Her hair, bright in the morning sun. Smiling. Maker, don't break her light. Ask of me anything, and I will give it. Whatever your will, ask me, and I shall do anything to keep her whole. Please, Maker.

The stairs. There were two guards standing near the main door. "You there. Why aren't you using the servant's passage?"

Raviathan bowed, his fear crawling up his spine and over his shoulders like thousands of marching ants. "There was a spill. The stairs are being cleaned, milord. Too slippery."

The guard snorted. "On your way."

Raviathan bowed again. The further he went in, the more trapped he felt. Once up the stairs, there were fewer paths of escape. At the top, Raviathan crouched down. No guards or servants. The guards at the bottom couldn't see him through the banister. He pulled out the skin and squeezed out the oil at the center of the top of the stone steps. Staying low, he worked his way half way down the stair so that the oil was spread then crawled back up on hands and feet. If he was lucky, one of them would break their neck or crack a skull.

After wiping the residual oil off his fingers with the thin blanket, Raviathan stored the tray out of sight under a table. The library and study were on the left. The private quarters of the family and high level servants on the right. Most likely, they would be in the private quarters. He left the blanket on the tray and belted on the sword. Shadows would be his cover from here on. Maker, please let me make it in time.

Laughter. He followed the voices.

"What, you really going to do it?"

"Oh, mate, that's just sick."

"Maker's breath," a man said laughing. "Too bad. She has a nice pair of tits on her."

Raviathan unsheathed the sword as silently as he could and retrieved one of the knives he had stolen. The laughter continued. The door was cracked open, and while shadows moved in what little Raviathan could see, he had no idea of who was on the other side. Two voices, but at least three were on there. Holding his breath, Raviathan slowly pushed open the door. There were no sounds of alarm. Just laughter.

Three guards stood in a tight semi circle in the solar. Another was on the floor. The only way to the arl's chamber was forward. At least the guards were distracted, but four against one? Not the best odds. Why was that guard…?

Her neck was cut half off. Skin pale enough that she was translucent. Blood pooled, bright red, matting her dark hair. A slender arm lay limp in the blood, her fingers slightly curled. Ripped dress. Nola's breasts bounced with each thrust from the guard. Pale blue eyes stared ahead, unseeing. The dead have no dignity.

They didn't see him. Two died never knowing the cause.

"What?" A third reached for his sword.

The one on the floor looked up. "Heh. Wh-"

Raviathan took the standing guard's head off. A clean cut. The head fell, bounced with a metal clank of the man's helmet and skittered across the stone floor. The body continued to stand, dumb, before falling back, slowly as if through water. Raviathan's knife whipped forward, striking through the last guard's neck. The shem's breath hissed out, his eyes bulged when he couldn't scream. Blood filled his lungs as he tried to breath in. The headless guard's body hit the floor, a heavy clatter of metal on stone.

Nola. Raviathan kicked the dying guard's body off of her. The guard's cock slide out, wet and still hard. Oh, Nola. She lay there, bare to the world. Raviathan tore a tapestry and bundled her in the rich but dusty fabric. He set a torch to the tapestry. There was no time for this, but Raviathan couldn't move on until the tapestry started to burn. No one was going to see her like naked and abused like that. No one. If no one else saw, maybe she could still go to the Maker pure. Like she should have.

The keys were on the headless guard's body. Raviathan ripped them off and continued. Any mercy he might have had was gone. Please, Maker. Ask of me anything, and I shall do your will. Please, let her be safe.

The first door was locked. After fiddling with the keys for what seemed like an eternity, his hands shaking, Raviathan got the door opened. Empty bedroom. Cursing silently, he went the next and fumbled with the lock. A feminine gasp. "Hey," he whispered as loud as he dared. "It's me."

"Rav?"

Raviathan's heart leapt into his throat. "Ness. I'm here. Are you alright?"

"Yes." She was next to the door. "They took Nola, Miram, and Shianni. The rest of us have been left here."

Why by Andraste's burning tits did these shems need so many Maker damned keys! He tried to will his hands to stop shaking, but Ness was right there. Just one piece of wood separating them. "Ness, you're alright? Swear it to me."

"My arm is a little bruised from the guard, but that's all. I swear, husband."

Blast these keys. When he finally got the door open, his wife was there. She was whole. "Oh, Maker. Ness." He kissed her, wished he could stay there until his shaking stopped. He tried to blink back his tears now that he could see her. The other four came up to the door. "No, wait. Stay hidden for now. There are guards all around."

"Guards?" Valora retreated a step. "But how will be get out?"

"You'll get out," Raviathan said. "Let me clear the rest of the wing first." He looked to his wife for support.

Nesiara nodded then turned back to the others. "It'll only be a minute. He's gotten this far, and I'm sure he has a plan."

Raviathan closed the door and whispered thanks to the Maker. The adjacent door was locked and empty. Last one. It had to be Vaughan's. Unlocked. Thank the Maker for small favors.

Vaughan's broad back faced him. The rich velvet of his doublet had swirls of gold embroidered vines. He was every inch the wealthy lord. Laughter. Grunts. Movement on the ground.

No.

No… not that.

Of all things, Maker why?

One shem had Shianni's wrists over her head, pinned down under his knees. His hand over her mouth. Keeping her from screaming. Not even allowed to scream.

The other…

Oh, cousin. Images of their lives together sped through his mind like flashes of lightning. Two. His first memory, holding her hand and listening to his mother's story. Four. The two of them, naked in a tub, splashing each other to his mother's frustration. Six. Raviathan giving her a wooden toy of a strange deer with laced horns, his favorite toy, when she was crying. Eight. Learning to dance, his mother's singing, Shianni laughing when he fell over his own too large feet. Ten. Playing on the banks of the Drakon River, pretending to be pirates, her laughter and bright red hair as she brandished a stick that was her saber. Twelve. Her face, scowling at him, trying to get him to stop messing around with the alienage girls for his own good. Fourteen. Weeping on her shoulder when his mother died, her fingers running through his hair. Sixteen. She was rubbing his back after one of his patients died, making him a horrible meal because she didn't know how to cook. Eighteen. Wrestling with her on the stage the day he met his wife.

Shianni…


	15. Married Life – Fire and the Blood

"What are…you're not one of the servants."

Vaughan dodged back. The sword strike slashed across his stomach, splitting his gold and red velvet doublet. Not deep enough to kill him, though he had no armor to protect him. Raviathan didn't remember striking. His arms, his body, moved of its own accord. Vaughan reached for his knife as blood seeped out from between his fingers. "You bloody knife ear! I'll have you flayed!"

Vaughan caught his second strike with his dagger, the impact jarring Raviathan's arm. Raviathan angled his sword to push Vaughan's arm wide then stepped in with his knife. He watched Vaughan's face as the knife went in to the hilt. The shock as the knife penetrated. His small, blue eyes changing when he realized he was going to die. Raviathan stabbed with his knife again, angling up under the ribcage. He felt the warmth of Vaughan's life blood spill onto his hand. Raviathan growled, "Never again."

The other two were moving. Raviathan caught them out of the corner of his eye. He kicked Vaughan back and turned to face them. One reached for his sword. The other was struggling, his pants about his ankles. White smallclothes lay in tatters on the floor. Shianni. Her long, pale legs. A tiny splatter of blood on one thigh. The thin line of his seed that trailed like a spider strand between their bodies before snapping.

No mercy. No forgiveness. He wanted blood. Raviathan slipped through space, movement without thought. Blood splattered his face when he took off the shem's head. Hot drops, last of the shem's life. The other was making noise. Babbling. His hands were up before him, as if that would stop what was coming. He went down to his knees, his pants still unlaced and pooled below him. Raviathan's sword swipe took off the tops of the shem's fingers and split his throat.

Three bodies. It wasn't enough. Raviathan wanted to kill them again. He stood there with three lords at his feet. Not enough. His bloodied weapons dripped at his sides. Never enough. Rage boiled in him, writhing like a living thing. He wanted to burn the world. The heart inside him howled, beating too fast. Hot blood and fire, and he would feed his wrath as the world burned before him.

Shianni backing to the wall snapped him out of his thoughts. She whimpered, ashen, hurt. She scrabbled to get her dress down. Shaking, clumsy from pain, she huddled there staring at the bodies. His weapons dropped, thudding dully on the carpet. The beginnings of a bruise marked half her face. More bruises on her arms, wrists, and neck. Her gasp brought him short. "Shianni?" Raviathan knelt so that he was eye level with her. "Shianni?"

She stared at the bodies, the blood. When Raviathan moved forward, she flinched back. "Cousin, it's me. Cousin?"

Her eyes were on him then, but she didn't seem to see.

"Cousin?" Raviathan reached forward.

"Don't!" Raviathan froze. Her eyes stared through him. "Stay away!"

The words were like a knife. "Cousin? Don't you recognize me? It's Rav."

A tear slipped out, falling quickly to her dress. "Please," she whispered. "Stay away. I don't want anyone to touch me."

Raviathan sat back on his heels. What to do? What could he do? Helpless. Too late. His mother, his aunt, Nola, Shianni. He had always been too late.

They weren't out of danger yet. There were other guards. "Shianni, I'm going to send Ness and Valora to look after you. I still need to take care of a few things." Oh, cousin. I'm sorry. Maker forgive me.

Raviathan took Vaughan's dagger and the sword from the dead lord along with the weapons he had dropped. What either lord's name was, Raviathan didn't know. He knocked on the door where the rest of the women waited, told Valora and Nesiara that Shianni was in the other room, that she was afraid.

"Valora," Nesiara said, "stay here. Watch the others. I'll get her."

"Ness," Raviathan whispered so the others couldn't hear. "The three lords are dead. So are the guards outside the corridor."

"I knew from the blood," she whispered back. "But thanks for warning me. I'll take care of her, my love."

Raviathan handed her the keys. "Lock yourselves in. Soris or I will come for you."

She nodded. "Maker watch over you."

"Maker watch over us all."

Nola's body was still burning in the chamber. Where was Miram? Raviathan looked down at the guard, his cock still out. Such a pathetic thing to do so much damage. On impulse, Raviathan cut it off. Watched the blood sputter out. The little piece of flesh laying there. The dead have no dignity.

Shouts from ahead. Raviathan's head snapped up. Grabbing a bow and quiver from a dead guard, he ran to the corridor that separated the two upper wings. A well dressed man stood at the top of the stair, a hand over his mouth. Another lord? He was easily in his fifth decade. "Is he alive?"

A voice from below. "Can't tell. What happened?"

"He was on the stair and slipped."

Raviathan crept up until he was behind the shem. Grey hair. Fine clothes strained at his round belly. A high level servant. Steward or chamberlain? Raviathan sent a vicious kick in the small of his back. The shem let out a surprised yelp, his arms going out protectively in front of him, and down the stairs he fell. He slipped and crunched, his blood mixing with the oil.

Not waiting, Raviathan sent and arrow down into the guard's face. Another well dressed servant, presumably the one who had slipped, lay unmoving at the bottom of the stair.

"To arms! To arms!"

Raviathan sent another arrow at the remaining guard. The guard tried to duck behind his sword. The arrow hit him in the shoulder. The guard's armor kept it from going deep. Damn. Raviathan released another arrow. The guard had his shield up covering his torso, but that's not where Raviathan had aimed. The guard cried out as a second arrow vibrated, embedded well into his thigh.

"To arms!"

Blast him! Another arrow twanged and found its target. Raviathan cursed. Unless he was lucky enough to hit an artery, he was wasting his arrows.

Barking dogs. A chill went down Raviathan's spine at the sound, a primitive fear that sidestepped reason. The hounds brayed, the owner yelling, "Where?"

"Up on the second floor. He's got a bow."

"Not for much longer, he doesn't. Hounds, attack!"

Raviathan saw them. Giant, brawny dogs that were all rippling muscle. The skittered, their claws scrabbling for purchase on the stone. Their shoulders were massive, all bunching power ready to release. The hounds growled and snapped, their eyes focused only on him.

Maker, please! Raviathan grabbed the torch from the sconce on the wall hoping beyond hope that the dogs would be afraid of fire. So fast. The first one bounded twice, almost up the stairway. Its claws skittered, and it slipped in the oil. Raviathan threw the torch at it, reflexes from fear. The other two were race up when the oil caught. The hounds squealed in pain, oil coating their fur. Raviathan could smell them burning.

"My dogs!"

The animals were crazed with fear. One hit the banister, the now oil coated wood seizing the fire. Another dog jumped to the floor below, clumsy in confusion and pain. The third tried jumping blindly in the other direction. The tapestry on the wall started to burn, small licks of flame hovering at the base.

The guard with three arrows sticking out of him had lowered his shield in shock at the scene. Raviathan took the chance to aim. The guard crumpled from the killing blow.

"Copper!" The hound master tried to go to the burning animal. The dog tore off down the hall deeper into the estate, his fur still on fire. Raviathan let loose an arrow into the unprotected hound master. It took a second to kill the man. The kennel master had been that dog's only hope. Sorry, dog. Raviathan didn't have many arrows left, but he used them on the two animals. If I can find you, dog, I'll end it quickly.

A guard who ran headlong to the stairs slipped on the oil. He cried out as fire heated his armor. Other guards gathered at the base. One tried to smother the fire off the guard, but the tapestry he used caught as well. "Fire! Get a water brigade!"

The tapestry down the hall moved. Raviathan turned, an arrow notched. Guards came, one after another through the hidden servants' passage. More pooled below.

Raviathan sent an arrow into the first two guards. So many. Too many. They kept pouring out like water from a broken damn. A torrent of them. Armed, armored, and trained. He didn't have the advantage of surprise anymore. He pulled his sword and dagger, retreating to the door to the solar. At least they wouldn't flank him, but his end was only a matter of time.

The guards were yelling. "An elf! The elves came after all!"

"Water! Hurry, before it catches the roof timbers!"

"To arms!"

The first guard was there, sword out and swinging for him. Raviathan ducked, his own sword piercing from below. The armor slowed his blade before it could do any major damage. The guard grunted and readied his sword for another attack, his shield now before him. The guard's first attack had been clumsy, limited as he was by the narrowness of the doorway. He was ready now with a clear path. Sword high, the guard's arm started to shake. Shock registered in his face a second before blood poured out of his mouth.

The poison. Raviathan felt his features twist, but into a smile or snarl, he wasn't sure. He kicked at the guard's exposed knee then slashed at the shem's throat. Blood flowed out like water. Raviathan kicked him back into his fellows on the other side of the door.

"You're all dead!" Raviathan yelled at them. If they didn't die today, they would be dead within the week as the poison broke down their bodies. Bruises wouldn't heal, cuts would continue to bleed. In time, their vessels and veins would leak, the fluid unstopped. They would bleed internally, slowly drowning in the flood of their own blood. Or he would make them bleed externally. Vaughan and those bastard lords were dead. A good portion of the guards would be. If nothing else, Raviathan knew he had taken a stand.

Raviathan lashed out, confidence clearing away uncertainty. Enough bruises, a few cuts, and the guards were clumsy from the poison. He still had a chance. Ness was depending on him. His wife and kin, his friends from childhood. He raised his dagger to parry a blow, his sword diving forward. He thrust with his sword again knowing he didn't have to land a killing blow anymore in order to kill. The guard doubled over, dark blood trickling from his mouth. "You're all dead!"

Calls for water carried up from main gate. Smoke hung in a haze. Wood popped. The light from the corridor brightened when the gates opened. Those idiots, Raviathan thought with satisfaction. The fire roared with new life. What had been alarm calls for order became frenzied.

The guard who came up to replace the two dead was pale. The poison, the alcohol, a crazed elf, and now a fire. Their morale was shaken. Raviathan lunged, stabbing the guard in the midsection. Good. The shem before him was blonde, the color of weak piss. He was young, barely in his manhood. He was terrified. When Raviathan brought his blade down for the killing blow, the shem didn't even defend against it. The blade cut down, deep into the exposed soft tissues of the guard's neck. Blood leaked out like wine.

Another guard came and died. And another. Raviathan bared his teeth, the fire roaring in the corridor. And another fell. Another. Burn the world. Their blood spread out like a red carpet over stone. When no more took the place of the fallen, Raviathan looked back into the corridor. The wooden banister was ablaze like a wall of flame. The tapestry carried the fire to the rafters. No guards in sight, only yells from below. Afraid the flames would block them in, the guards had all retreated.

Soris! Would he be safe? He had no way to defend himself. The only weapon at his disposal was a butcher's knife and a bow he'd had next to no practice with. Even if he ran out the servant's entrance, the guards would follow or go through the main gate. Oh, Soris. I'm sorry. Damn it. Too late. Soris, I hope you ran when you had the chance. If I had planned better…

Raviathan raced back. The door to Vaughan's room was open, but only the dead remained. Wrath rekindled at the sight of the bodies. How many years had these shems been haunting his people? If not for this day, these men would have continued their crimes for decades. They didn't even have to hide rape or murder. They could violate his people at any time with full support of the city's guards. The walls that had been the elves' safety, walls that loomed over their lives, were nothing. Fragile illusions. He had seen a purge. Had seen his mother die. How had he not seen the world for what it was before? As long as there were shems, his people would never be safe.

Bitterness filled Raviathan like acid. The threat of these lords, these nobles, lurked behind every shem. Some had more power than others, but they were all the same. Raviathan wasn't a person. Not Shianni, not Nola. No elf was. Just subhumans to them, little better than animals to be petted or beaten at a lord's whim. Burn the world. Fire overwhelmed his mind. Bright orange flame danced, swirled like a tornado inside him, cleaning him out. Without conscious thought, Raviathan emasculated their bodies. He shoved the soft bits of flesh into their mouths. Take from us no more.

Glancing back to make sure no guards had followed, Raviathan took a few minutes to plunder what he could from the rooms. Purses, weapons, their jewelry and finery, anything small of value.

"Ness!" He knocked on the door. "We have to go. The building is on fire."

"Fire!" a voice squeaked. The lock clicked a second before the door flew open.

"We have time to escape. It's a good distraction, but we must hurry." He looked beyond Valora to see Nesiara help Shianni up. The sight of his cousin pained him as if a giant was squeezing his chest. How much damage had been done? No time. "Don't be afraid of the fire. Stay close to the wall and follow me."

Gasps at the guards' bodies in the solar. More at the pile in the corridor just beyond. Shianni wailed, "So much blood."

"Everyone, we're going for the servants' passage. Stay low and next to the wall. Understand?"

Most nodded. Shianni didn't look at anything. Nesiara was focused on the fire, the bright orange flames reflected in her face.

"Ness?"

She turned to him, nodding once, calm.

The guards were still shouting orders as they tried to get the fire under control. Led by Raviathan, the elves made their way to the servants' door hidden behind a tapestry. The passage was dark, near black after the daylight and flames, cool without the haze of choking smoke. Raviathan felt along the narrow passage with one arm outstretched and another trailing along a wall. When they came to a fork, Raviathan took the right to lead them back to the kitchens. He might have to fight more, but that was the one way he knew out other than the guard heavy main doors. A light from below illuminated that path. A sign from the Maker?

Raviathan hurried down the tight corkscrew stairs eager to be gone. Maybe this exited into the dining hall. Raviathan was sure he could deal with a few poisoned guards. Get out, make a break for the estate exit.

Wait. The corridor… went left? "Who in the Maker's name designed this place?" Raviathan muttered.

"There! An elf!"

Maker's puss spewing ass! "All of you, get back. Go the other way. Wait for me at the top." Raviathan pulled two daggers. Their smaller size would be useful in the narrow passage instead of the long sword. "If you hear anyone coming from the other direction, go back into…" One of the women shrieked as a guard came barreling up. "Go!"

Raviathan got his daggers up in time. He formed a cross to catch the guard's sword, grunting at the effort to stop the sword. In that second, Raviathan got a good look at the guard. He was flushed, but not from poison. The barracks were on the left of the estate. Healthy guards. Raviathan's heart sank. With Vaughan dead, there was no reason to keep the women. But the guards didn't know Vaughan was dead. Even if they had, the guards would probably execute any elves just for vengeance.

The guard's sword thrust forward. Raviathan slammed into the wall to dodge in the narrow confines. Braced against the wall, he kicked out hoping to connect with the guard's knee. The guard dodged in time, sacrificing his balance to do so. Raviathan took the opportunity to strike out. He got a glancing blow, but nothing serious. The guard rushed him, using his size to overwhelm his smaller opponent. Raviathan feigned to one side then slipped past the guard's flank. Gotcha. He thrust his dagger up into the exposed area under the guard's arm.

The shem bellowed. He whirled about, but Raviathan kept pace at the shem's back, narrowly ducking the shem's elbow strike. Raviathan struck hard at the shem's kidney. The armor slowed his blade, but Vaughan's silverite dagger was superior to the guard's steel armor. The blade dove in, driving the shem to his knees. One final thrust, then Raviathan slid his second dagger across the shem's soft neck.

Raviathan pulled the dagger out, tired but grateful that he still stood. Two more guards entered the corridor. The mass of their bodies taking up space like a wall. Maker, do you hate elves? Raviathan grabbed the dead guard's crossbow. At least it was impossible to miss the oncoming shems. The first got his shield up, but the bolt slammed into the shoulder of the second shem. Raviathan dropped the crossbow, grabbed his daggers, and closed the distance until they were only five paces apart. The guards would keep coming from this direction making the women vulnerable from an attack from behind. If he could get to the servants' entrance on this side, maybe he could find some way to secure the door.

Miram. She was still here, somewhere. Was she still alive? With the other women, waiting and defenseless, he couldn't justify going after her. Leave her, and her death would haunt him for the rest of his life. Try and find her, he put the others in further jeopardy.

The second guard, a shem with a dark goatee, had a two handed sword strapped to his back. The weapon was useless in the corridor. The real challenge was the sword and shield shem. The man looked to be in his forties, aged for a guard. Age would make him slower, but he was also experienced.

"Our lord," the older guard said. "Does he live?"

"No."

The guard's lips thinned. "That was a mistake, knife ears."

"So was kidnapping my wife." Raviathan felt like spitting in the shem's face, but he dared not get that close. Yet. "So was raping my kin."

The goateed guard had his hand on the bolt embedded in his shoulder, wincing as he tried to pull it out. "You've no hope, cock rider. When we're done with you, we'll be taking every pretty whore in that alienage and chaining them in the dungeons. You'll never see the light of day again. You'll have a river of cum flowin' out your ass."

Why bother telling him? Were they stalling? Why deliberately provoke him? Raviathan took two steps back. He saw the frustration on the guards' faces. A trap? Had to be. But surely they knew how to disarm it. The other guard hadn't been caught. Raviathan backpedaled. If they weren't willing to approach, he could get the crossbow and simply fire at them from a safe distance.

"Maker spit on you!" The goateed guard slammed his fist into the side of the corridor, hitting a release button. After a mechanized click sounded, the two charged. The young guard surged forward, pushing the older shem out of the way.

Impetuous idiot. He thought size was everything in fighting, even with a bolt in his shoulder and his main weapon useless. Raviathan dodged back as the shem's knife slashed at him. He dodged again, putting more distance between them and the older guard. At the guard's third attack, Raviathan sidestepped. Using the guard's strike momentum, Raviathan pushed the unbalanced shem's arm high to expose the vulnerable underarm not covered by armor. With a quick and wicked slash, Raviathan cut the man's arm to the bone. The shem's scream ended in a bloody gurgle as Raviathan finished him off.

The other guard had been watching him. The stared at each other, and Raviathan realized the guard had been watching him to learn his technique. This guard wasn't a dumb, green recruit. The brutality of such a tactic, to watch his compatriot die, just so he could learn, chilled Raviathan. Weren't there any shems with feeling? Wolves in human skin. The shem feigned a strike. Raviathan skittered backwards.

"So. You're afraid. Not so dumb, are you."

No point in talking. Raviathan feigned in high with his daggers hoping the shem would defend and leave his legs unprotected for a kick. The guard raised his shield as Raviathan expected. A movement at the last second was his only warning. He jumped back, the shem's sword grazing his leg. Raviathan's breath caught at the stinging pain in his leg. It wasn't deep, he knew, but he'd never been injured in combat before. 

This man was better than he was. Had more experience. Wasn't poisoned. What to do? Retreat up the stairs? The shem could easily pick up the crossbow and finish him off. Force him back to trigger the trap? Not with this shem. There were no witnesses here. He could… no. Last resort only. This man had more experience, but Raviathan was sure he was faster. If only he understood sword and shield tactics better.

Raviathan put the shem through a series of feints to get a sense of his movements. The shem didn't turn like he should. Raviathan tried again, forcing the shem to defend from the side. The guard did so, but he was awkward. Injured? Is that why he was left behind? The shem could be faking, luring Raviathan into a trap. The smart tactic would be to keep testing the shem to make sure. Make the man reveal himself. He didn't have time though. There was no telling what happened to Soris. There could be more guards taking the women hostage. Or executing them.

Deciding that the best tactic would be to end the fight as soon as possible, Raviathan took a chance and struck out for the shem's vulnerable side. The guard grunted, heaved his sword with alarming speed. It was a trap. Raviathan tried to dodge back from the sword by moving to the shem's shield side. The shield rushed at him. Raviathan got his arm up to brace, but there was no time. He tensed a split second before impact. His lungs empty, he gritted his teeth as the shield slammed into him, knocking him into the wall.

"Rav, duck!"

Nesiara? Partially stunned by the shield, Raviathan had no problem sliding down the wall. A bolt thudded into the guard's chest a second later. The shem gasped, staring down at the bolt. Raviathan took the opportunity to thrust his dagger into the shem's inner leg. Right at the artery. Blood flowed out freely as the shem backpedaled. He fell over the body of his fellow, his breath coming in heavy, sharp gasps.

Raviathan turned to see his wife, the crossbow in her hands. "Is he?"

"Soon," Raviathan said, pushing against the wall to get to his feet. He blinked rapidly and waited for the room to still. "I told you to run."

"Soris came. He's leading the others out."

"Soris?" Thank the Maker he's alive.

Nesiara tugged Raviathan's shirt sleeve. "He had the sense to take some armor off a guard. He's got a sword and shield. Said the way was clear to the kitchens where they could get out."

"Then why are you here? Ness…"

"I looked in the study and library for Miram and Nola. I can't find them. I think they must be in the barracks if they're still here."

"Nola is dead. Ness, please. Run now."

"The whole estate is in chaos. I'm not leaving until we find Miram." Raviathan opened his mouth to protest. "No, Rav. I'm with you." When he opened his mouth again, Nesiara hoisted the crossbow and held it at rest across her chest. "I can be stubborn too. And we're wasting time while the estate burns. My love, I'll stay behind you, but I'm not leaving without you."

Maker's breath. His wife. She had the heart of a lion. "Have you used one of those before?"

"No. Doesn't seem too hard."

"Keep your finger off the trigger and to the side, like this. Otherwise you might accidentally shoot. Also, make sure you don't point it at me, so carry it facing that direction. Yes, that's right. Sometimes they go off on their own."

"Got it."

"Get the bolt case. And the second…"

"I'll run. I know, love."

"Maker forgive me." He should make her go. Raviathan turned, went to the spot he knew a trap was laid, and searched. Once he knew it was there, the latch wasn't hard to find. He rolled one of the guard's helmets across, saw it bump over the trigger. Nothing. "Let's go."

Raviathan listened at the exit. Distant shouts from the guards working to stop the fire. A tapestry concealed the door from the outside. No guards in the hall. "Ness," Raviathan whispered, "keep watch behind me."

She nodded. Privies on the right, and the barracks should be up ahead. The captain of the guard's room was at the back and led to the dungeons below. Kennels on the right. Smoke drifted in wisps along the roof. By the sounds of the guards, the fire had continued to spread despite their efforts. Maker guide us. The two skulked along the corridor. Raviathan tried the first door. Locked. "Maker's ass."

"What is it? And don't curse like that."

"I left the keys upstairs."

"I've got them." Nesiara handed him the crossbow then set to work on trying the keys. Her hands were much steadier than his had been. "Got it."

"Stand back in case anyone is on the other side." Raviathan handed her back the crossbow. Ready with his sword, Raviathan flung open the door. Armor room. No Miram. Raviathan left for the next door.

"Wait. Let's at least get some armor."

"Nothing is going to fit us," Raviathan said, but Nesiara was already inside.

"Husband, all it takes is one arrow. Please." She picked up padding that was twice her size and belted it into place before adding a chainmail shirt.

"Pick out a dagger, and get some more bolts." Raviathan scanned the room. chainmail wasn't bad, but it wasn't silent either. Two of the stands in the back had studded leather armor. That would do. Picking between the smallest and better quality, Raviathan did his best to fit the overlarge armor. He needed extra belts to secure everything, but it was enough. Picking a long bow he could work with, Raviathan belted it on with that Warden's sword, the extra from the lord, and secured a quiver with as many arrows as he could shove into it. He had to admit, he was feeling much more secure now.

In one chest, he found a small pack of concentrated elfroot potions. He took one and downed it. The sting in his thigh ebbed. The lingering dizziness from the shield blow left. Stowing the rest away, he turned to leave.

The chainmail was long on his wife. It ended halfway down her thighs, her wedding dress flowing beneath. White dress, steel chain, and blonde hair braided into a corona. She looked like the paintings of Andraste as the Warrior Bride come to life. "You know, Ness, you look good in chainmail."

She squinted at him. "Just… don't get distracted."

"Can you move alright in the armor?"

"Yes. It's not as heavy as I thought it'd be."

They went through each of the barracks but found nothing beyond chests and bunk beds. The captain's room was large, opulent by the standards of the rest of the guards. Raviathan's lips thinned. "That's the door to the dungeon. With the fire, this building could collapse."

"What about that room we passed?"

"Kennels. She wouldn't be there." At Nesiara's silence, Raviathan turned to her, a silent question on his face.

"Let's try there first." They hurried back down the hall. The smoke was getting thicker, darker. "The guards kept making jokes. Muzzles and training. Bitches," she whispered.

The door swung open before Nesiara inserted the first key. Rows of large box cages lined both sides of the room with hay and dishes in each. Raviathan stared in horror at the burned dog that lay in the middle of the room. The dog's flesh was gone in places, the rest of him oozing. Pink and charred. When the animal whimpered, Nesiara covered her mouth. "Oh Maker. How… how could these men be so cruel? I don't… why would anyone do this?"

The dog whimpered again, a low pathetic mewl. Raviathan thought of the dog he had injured a month ago. The high pitched squeal of pain. Fresh in his ears. The dog's eyes were gone. The whimpering increased when Raviathan got close. "Sorry, dog," he whispered and slit the animal's throat.

Nesiara still had her hand over her mouth when she went to the first cage. "Ness! Don't!"

She jumped back, startled. The dog inside the cage was watching them. All the dogs were. Raviathan's blood chilled. They knew. Maker! He had heard stories of how smart the mabari were, but this? They were all standing, all perfectly still, watching him like malevolent statues.

"Rav? They could be killed in the fire."

"No," he said, his voice low. "They're waiting for you to open the cages. So they can attack."

"What? Don't be silly. Dogs…"

"Come here."

When she left, as if on cue, all the dogs charged their cages. They barked and snarled, biting at the metal that bound them. Nesiara shrieked in surprise. "How… how did you know?"

Raviathan held her, her back pressed against his chest, terrified all over again at how close she came to being mauled. Oh, Ness please. You shouldn't be here. I have to get you out.

"Help!"

They turned to the voice at the end of the kennels. Nesiara ran, moving out of his arms too soon for comfort. "Miram, we'll get you out."

"Thank the Maker." Miram sat, naked and huddled, in the last cage. Bruises covered her body. Blood trailed from a cut on her lip and lesion to her head. Her skin was split in places and a thick collar with a D ring was strapped around her neck. Raviathan found her clothes tossed in a corner and brought them over. At least her dress and shoes fit through the bars. She cried when she saw him. "Rav. I didn't think there was any hope."

"Did they…?" Raviathan couldn't finish. The guard's grunts. Nola's pale blue eyes staring without seeing, her body exposed. Shianni. Shems laughing. Laughing. Couldn't scream. For a moment Raviathan couldn't breathe. His throat closed, dry, jerking. He put a hand over his neck in terror that he was choking.

"Rape me? No. They weren't far from it, but then there was a panic. I heard them yell fire."

"Keys," Nesiara said turning to Raviathan. "These keys aren't for the cages."

Raviathan's throat had eased at Miram's words, but the relief was short lived. "Andraste's ass. If they're with the kennel master, his body is in the middle of the Main Hall. Right where all the guards are and a very big fire."

"Maybe they have a copy around?" Nesiara started searching through the equipment.

Raviathan handed Miram an elfroot potion then tested the cage gate. Solid. No prying it open. He glanced at the mabari. No wonder. The dogs were fearsome beasts. "Keep looking. I'm going to see if there's a war hammer in the armory. Maybe we can break the door."

Raviathan hurried to the door. It swung open just as he was about to reach for the handle.

"Blasted knife ears. You're the cause of all this."

Nesiara gasped. No, Raviathan thought. The threat of this shem was all the more real with her in the room. Raviathan backpedaled, avoiding the shem's first strike until he could ready his own weapons. Another guard followed, brought by the sound of the dogs.

"Those men. They were my friends," the guard screamed at him, another furious swipe of his sword. "A hundred of your whore kind aren't worth one of them."

Raviathan had his blades out. With the two attackers he had little option but to defend. He kept backing further into the room so they wouldn't flank him.

"You're all whores and thieves! We should have set fire to that cesspit and been done with your kind years ago! Worthless!"

Sensing an opportunity, Raviathan ducked to the side of the silent guard. The silverite dagger struck deep, metal screeching against metal adding to the cacophony of barking dogs. The enraged shem jerked. His attacks stopped, so Raviathan kept after the silent guard. He parried a blow then kicked at the guard's knee. It crunched under his foot. The guard screamed and fell. The enraged shem jerked again, face frozen. His watery blue eyes were bugged out, the whites around his irises clear. Raviathan finished off the crippled guard. When he turned back to the enraged shem, the man jerked a third time. He fell forward on his face, three thick, black bolts sticking out of his back.

Raviathan met his wife's eyes. The calm eyes of a lioness.

When all of this was done, he was going to teach her how to use a sword and bow.

She returned to searching for keys. He left to find a hammer.

The corridor was empty save for the gray haze of smoke that hung thick in the air. Raviathan covered his mouth. His eyes teared from the smoke. The fire roared, audible over the terror of men. Orange tinted the end of the hallway mingled with the pure white of daylight. One man started screaming. Stupid shems. Water would only cause the burning oil to spread. Let this horror be your funeral pyre.

When he returned with a heavy hammer, he saw Nesiara trying to pry the lock with a knife. "Stand back. Ness, keep an eye on the door."

The lock only fractured and embedded the bolt at the first strike. Frustrated, Raviathan hammered at the bars until Miram could squeeze through with their help. He stared at the collar around her slender neck. Those hateful shems. They act like animals and put us in collars. It wasn't humiliating enough to strip her, they had to take away everything that made her a person.

"It's locked," Miram said, catching his look, her own rage burning in turn. "I need a knife to cut it off."

"We need to get out first. Follow me. Stay low and cover your mouths." Miram stooped to grab one of the dead guard's sword. Raviathan hurried to the corridor, the two following after. The smoke seared his throat. Even with his mouth covered, he had to fight to keep from coughing.

A crash thundered from the front, hard enough that the stone floor vibrated. A panicked voice called, "The servants' passage. The only way out."

Three guards ran their way. To the Abyss with these shems! "Both of you, get low to the ground," Raviathan whispered.

Nesiara knelt, aimed, and sent a bolt into the shadow of one of the oncoming men. Raviathan's sword and dagger were out. The bolt missed, alerting the guards. "The elves!"

Though hard to see, Raviathan thought they were all sword and shield men. The crossbow mechanism sounded, and a man cried out in pain. "Don't shoot unless you can see who you're shooting," Raviathan said and charged. He flanked to the right catching a guard by surprise. The shems were just as affected by the smoke, their vision blurry. Inexperienced too. Raviathan swept the guard's sword to the side and thrust his blade into the man's stomach. A good strike, but the guard's armor kept it from being lethal. The guard grunted then started coughing.

Raviathan danced back to keep from being flanked. Instead of a sword, the middle guard had a hammer. The hammer guard stepped forward, brushing Raviathan's sword aside with his shield, and swinging the hammer at his side. Raviathan leapt back, the hammer getting a glancing blow on his side. Breathing hard from the fight, Raviathan struggled not to cough. Once he started, he wouldn't be able to stop. His eyes stung, tears blurring his vision. The guard stepped in again, this time striking out with his shield. Raviathan tried to dodge, but the shield caught him in the chest.

The first guard he attacked spied Miram and rushed her. The crossbow twanged again, followed by a thud and, "Cock riding bitch!"

No time. Raviathan kicked at the guard's knee knowing he would either dodge or raise his shield in protection. Dodging would put the guard off balance, defending low with his shield would leave an opening. The guard did both. Raviathan sidestepped and swung his blade down on the unprotected back of the man's thigh. The guard yelled. Distracted by the strike, Raviathan moved in with his dagger and plunged it into the shem's eye.

Raviathan turned. Both women retreated doing their best to defend with weapons they had never used. Miram clutched at her stomach. Red stained her dress from the wound. The guard attacking Nesiara lumbered with a bolt in his stomach, but she was still no match for him. She grunted when the guard scored a hit on her side, but his steel did not penetrate her chainmail. She would be bruised by the blow, but not a severe injury. Raviathan plunged the silverite dagger into the guard attacking Nesiara. The shem gave a hoarse cry then choked on the hazy air.

"Help her," Raviathan said. Nesiara turned her attention to the remaining shem. Raviathan kicked the back of the shem's knee, forcing the man down. A final swipe along the guard's neck.

Both women were panting and favoring their injuries. Had the guard another six months of experience, the two would be dead. Stupid to go after them anyway. Raviathan wasted no time. He kicked the guard in the stomach to push him away from the women, then struck. In less than a minute, the shem was dead at his feet.

Miram fell to her knees, clutching her stomach. Raviathan knelt next to her and offered one of the elfroot potions. "Easy there." He rubbed her back as he tipped the potion for her to drink. She whimpered, her hands over her wounded stomach, and leaned into him. "It'll be alright, Miram."

"Those bastards," she whispered. Her hands clutched, knuckles white. Tears leaked from smoke reddened eyes when she looked up at him. "They were laughing when they stripped me. Laughing when they whipped me."

"No one will ever know. The guards who did that are dead." Raviathan carefully cut the collar off with the silverite dagger. He wrapped her fingers around the leather. No one was going to know about Nola either. "Come on. We still need to get out."

Raviathan squeezed Nesiara's hand then headed down the hallway, tearing down two tapestries as he went.

"Not the servants' passage," Nesiara asked.

"Front gates. I want us out of here. Hurry."

"The fire," Miram said in horror. "We… we can't."

Nesiara took her hand. "You heard him. Come on. We'll be fine."

Miram whimpered as she was dragged towards the roaring nest of fire.

Heat pounded from the hall. The grey haze turned red and finally brilliant orange as they got closer. The fire boiled along the banister, spread along the oil splashed floor, perched like a monstrous bird of prey over the room, its wings raised to swoop down. The crash had been one of the roof timbers. It lay, splintered and broken, charred black, an ominous gate that popped and snapped, its jaws made of flame. The fire scorched, stole the very air to feed itself. 

Raviathan flung one tapestry over the timber, hopped over, and tossed the second to create a path to the door. Fresh air mingled with cloying smoke, but the heat was like walking through a forge. Miram pulled back in terror, barely held in place by Nesiara. Raviathan picked Miram up, his arms clamped tight around her to keep her from struggling, and jumped over the timber. Nesiara picked up her dress and followed. Fire roiled overhead. A great crack sounded as another timber split under the pressure of heat. Raviathan put Miram down, and the three ran. Another crash as the burning rafter collapsed behind them.

Blue sky. Clean air.

Two guards stared at the escaping elves in shock, their mouths open. A third punched one on the shoulder. "Don't just stare, you great lump. Them's the elves who'd started that fire."

Two more joined the three and charged. Maker, why? There was next to no way to keep the guards from surrounding him. Nesiara fumbled with the crossbow. Raviathan pulled his weapons. If he flanked and got around behind them, maybe he could keep them distracted so they wouldn't go after Nesiara and Miram. The two could run, get to safety. Ness wasn't going to leave though. Stubborn wife.

Raviathan dodged the first guard and sprinted around. He slashed at the back of the first guard's thigh, heard a satisfying cry of pain as his blade bit flesh. He kept the guards to his front, running backwards to keep them from flanking him. Blood poured from the guard's wound. The shem stumbled and put a hand to his head. Blood flowed like water from a broken vase. These men had taken the poison. Raviathan smiled. He shouldn't get cocky, but the odds had taken a definite turn in his favor.

He whipped his blades forward, shifting his retreat to a charge and taking the nearest guard by surprise. His steel didn't go through the guard's armor, but the bruise would continue to bleed internally. Raviathan retreated again. He brought his dagger up to defend against the guard who had been pressing against his left. Sidestepping so the left guard was blocking his fellows, Raviathan made two quick attacks before backing away again. He could do this. It would be a longer fight, but he could wear them down while the poison did the rest. Swipe and retreat. The first guard was down. Two bolts stuck out of his back. Only four.

Soris ran from the estate entrance. Raviathan's heart leapt. Soris's eyes were wide with fear, but he was unhurt. The guards didn't see the crazed elf running up behind them. Soris hesitated, adrenaline making his movements jerky as he tried to figure out where to hit. Finally, he poked a guard in the back with his sword. The guard cried out and spun. Soris ducked behind his shield, instinct guiding him. Raviathan took out one of the distracted guards and broke the knee of another. In another minute, the fight was over.

Raviathan sunk to his knees. He panted as fatigue made his limbs heavy. "Nice…work, cousin."

"You injured?" Soris looked as pale as bleached bone.

He shook his head. "Tired. Where are the rest?"

"Not far. Hiding. Waiting for us."

Nesiara wrapped her arms around him. "You're shaking."

"Reaction," Raviathan said. With her help, he hauled himself to his feet. "Let's go before more guards come."

Smoke stained the sky in a long, black smudge.


	16. Married Life – Blood on the Vhenadahl

Raviathan and the others moved quickly through the alleys and back streets. Nesiara and Valora helped Shianni walk, her arms around their shoulders as she limped along with her head down. At every pain filled step she took, Raviathan regretted he hadn't saved the last elfroot potion for her.

Soris watched over the women as Raviathan took vanguard, distracting guards and shems, or rerouting their path as needed. He moved them as fast as he dared, his only thought to get back to the alienage. Valendrian would know what to do from there. Thankfully, there were no guards at the gates to the alienage. Word of the assault on the estate had probably not yet spread for the guards to organize against them, not with the fire. 

"Come on," said Raviathan in a voice he didn't recognize. It was hard, stronger than he remembered. He was normally soft spoken, but now he sounded like Valendrian on a bad day. "The gates are clear. Let's go."

Catching up to him, Soris whispered as he glanced about, "What will we do, cousin? The house servants will surely tell the guards we're responsible." Most had run at the first hint of danger. Though the elven servants bore no love for Vaughan, it was only a matter of time before whispers spread or witnesses came forward. The city guard would come to the alienage. The real question was when. Would they have enough time to escape the city?

"Don't worry about it," Raviathan said, disturbed by the darkness in his own voice.

Soris glanced around again. "But…"

"Listen! The first thing is to get the women back." Lips pursed, he said quietly, "We'll probably have to leave Denerim. If the guards know we're solely responsible, it might spare the rest of the alienage from a purge. I don't know how far we'll get, but if it saves the others… We'll have to hurry though."

Soris paled at the thought. "Y-you mean… we'll be hunted?"

"Don't think about it," Raviathan whispered, hoping the others hadn't heard. They wouldn't be able to run for long, and the guards wouldn't be kind. Their lives were forfeit. All they could do now was minimize the damage for the others. The shouts from inside the alienage became clear once they neared the gates. Voices buzzed in a low, angry hum as if someone had thrown a stone at a wasp's nest. Most of the elves were gathered between the vhenadahl and stage. The festive decorations and lights appeared garish after all that had happened.

The vhenadahl, painted in unnatural red on white, burned Raviathan's eyes. The alienage flattened before him. Sounds warped, images distorted to swirls of color. Only the vhenadahl, the heart of the alienage, stood real and terrible. Shianni, pale legs with a splatter of blood. 

Spying them, Valendrian hurried forward, Duncan following with long easy strides. "You've returned." A frown crossed Valendrian's stern face as he reviewed the party. "But where is Toulime's daughter, Nola?"

Though she had stayed strong for most of the journey, Valora's squeaky voice was full of tears when she piped up. "She… she didn't make it."

"They killed her," Raviathan said in that same strange voice that wasn't his.

"What happened?" Valendrian asked, the lines in his face deepening.

The women led Shianni to her home, trying to cover her from the angry crowd as best they could. Valendrian watched her limp away. Raviathan said, "Vaughan and his guards are dead. The guards…" He couldn't look at Valendrian. Shock and rage were still running their course making the world seem flat and unreal.

Soris added looking shamefaced at his hahren, "Rav thinks we should go before the city guards get here."

"Ugh," Valendrian sighed. "That it had come to this. I don't know what I can do for you."

"This might be the only way to keep from implicating the whole alienage," Raviathan said. "If so, it's better you don't help us. Say we did this against the will of everyone here. We had better hurry. The guards will start combing the city and gates, but there might be a way for us to get out by the docks." He unfastened the borrowed long sword and held it to Duncan. "Thank you for the use of the sword."

"Maybe you should ditch the armor too," Soris said taking off his chainmail shirt. "We'll blend in better if you don't have it on."

Duncan had opened his mouth to say something, but the four turned at the sound of marching and clink of armor. Raviathan’s heart pounded. For the second time this day, shems invaded his home. Resolution settled into Raviathan's eyes as he turned towards the oncoming guards with his shoulders squared and chin lifted defiantly. "Run, Soris," he said. "Hide in one of the buildings." The other elf hesitated, looking at his cousin, but at Raviathan's hard glare, he ran into the crowd and disappeared.

The guard captain, a fit if older man with a white goatee, led a procession of official city guards. His gaze settled on Valendrian and Raviathan immediately. "Elder. We've respected your role here. Do not tarnish it by trying to hide the culprits, for there will be no tolerance this time. A swash of blood covers what remains of Arl of Denerim's estate. Who are the culprits?"

"I am," Raviathan said firmly before the guard could continue.

"Who else?"

"Just me." Raviathan's hard gaze met the captain's. He was still shaking in rage as he stepped forward.

The captain sneered down at him. "You expect me to believe that an entire estate's worth of guards and three trained lords were taken out by one elf?"

Valendrian placed a hand on Raviathan's shoulder before the young man could react in blind fury. He was calm as he addressed the guards who towered over them. "We are not all helpless. Captain."

One of the guards snorted, and Raviathan's steely gaze went to him. The captain recognized the look, how the elf's grip on the sword tightened for a moment. If the young elf resisted, they would kill him. It was as simple as that. The main problem would be the city's unstated need to see the elf hanged publicly, and tensions would flare for months if the people's need for blood was denied.

A hanging for a lone elf probably wouldn’t be enough to satisfy the mobs that would form. He'd have to be tortured publicly, perhaps for weeks. Such acts had not been performed since the Orlesian occupation, and Ferelden was well to be rid of them, but this was a rather extraordinary case. Vaughan had a strong following, nobles and guards who saw him as a forceful leader, a promise that the city would prosper when he became Arl. A public torture of the elf might be the only way to save the alienage from a purge. Those city guards loyal to Vaughan and the Kendells family would not be kind if a purge was ordered. 

There was no hope for the boy, but true as that was, cornered men fought the hardest. Whatever the elf had done, he wasn't a novice, and the captain was sure there would be more than one casualty on his side if this wasn't handled well. He faced the lad, understanding that the elf knew what was coming and had sacrificed himself. He looked at the beautiful face and could almost see the damage that would be done to it in the coming weeks. The torturers would break him in every way imaginable. Such a pity. He wished more of his guards had the kind of nerve this elf showed. "I commend you for your courage though I do not envy your fate. Surrender your weapons and come with us."

With a bitter sigh, Valendrian squeezed Raviathan's shoulder. "I'll see what I can do for your trial. Perhaps I can persuade Mother Boann to testify on your behalf."

The guard who had snorted smirked at the old elf. "You think he's going to get a trial? Even if he does get one, I doubt there'll be much left of that pretty face by the time it comes about."

"That's enough," the captain said glaring the guard down. Idiot. He was trying to avoid bloodshed. Last thing he needed was to panic the elf. The guards would react, the alienage would react, and then they would have no choice but an immediate purge.

"Ah, captain," Duncan said and all turned to him. "I am Warden-Commander of the Grey Wardens."

The captain scowled at the unexpected interruption. "You would be Duncan then."

"Yes," the dark human replied. "I am invoking the Right of Conscription." Raviathan frowned in puzzlement, and Valendrian's breath caught in a mixture of hope and regret.

"The right…" the captain stammered, "you can't. He broke the law."

"That does not matter," Duncan said injecting more authority in his voice. "The Right of Conscription can be used in lieu of the gallows if necessary, and that is especially true during a blight."

The words 'a blight' rippled through the guards. The few elves still standing to watch the exchange gasped. Some ran off to spread word. One guard whispered loud enough for the rest to hear, "So it's true. It isn't just a large darkspawn raid."

There was a prayer, "Maker save the King."

The captain swore as thoughts of how the city would react floated through his head. The Warden-Commander may have just saved the elven boy, but he doomed the alienage. The outrage from the city would be immediate, enough that even though actions against the Grey Wardens were unthinkable during a blight, conscription might not be enough to ensure the boy's safety. He fixed Duncan with a look that he hoped conveyed the seriousness of the situation.

"Get him out of the city. Today. Sooner the better." The captain turned then to the guards. "Men. If any ask, you are to say the elves responsible were killed for resisting. Any rumors that get started won't be hard to trace back. The Grey have the King's favor, and any sedition during a blight will not be dealt with leniency." That was the best he could do for the Wardens, but he doubted the men would keep their silence without a demonstration this evening. Days like this made him count the months to his retirement. "Fall out."

The guards left with dark looks and a few grumblings, but they were trained well enough not to speak too loudly. Raviathan slumped, and Valendrian wrapped his arms around the young elf and pressed his face against the back of Raviathan's neck. "Oh my boy. You have no idea what they were going to do to you."

Raviathan had seen it in the city guards' faces. There was a hard hate that many shems had when they saw an elf, but this was beyond anything Raviathan had experienced. They had wanted to see him broken. Not just humiliated or hurt. Broken. Those were the same ugly looks the guards at the estate had when they laughed around Nola's still warm body. It was a final insult that she couldn't even scream as her body was exposed and violated. The young elf started shaking in what Duncan recognized as reaction now that the main crisis was over. A trembling hand rested on the hahren's arm, and Valendrian gave Raviathan a final squeeze before releasing him.

Caught between rage, fear, and distrust, Raviathan returned Duncan's sword without looking at him. "Hahren, once I'm out of the city, Ness and I will have to run. Can you tell her…"

"I'm sorry, Rav." Valendrian clasped a hand against Raviathan's neck. "You have to go with Duncan."

Raviathan's brows knit. He glanced at Duncan, bitter hate in his eyes, then turned back to Valendrian. "Hahren," he whispered. "I'm not going with that shem."

"You listen, young man. I trust Duncan with my life. And you will fulfill your obligation."

"Say your goodbyes, but be quick about it," Duncan replied. "We need to leave as soon as possible."

"But," stricken, Raviathan looked to his hahren, "Ness. I can't leave her."

"Rav," Valendrian said, "you have no choice."

"No. I can run. The guards won't know. She… Valendrian, please..."

"Stop!" Valendrian squeezed Raviathan's arms, his grip painful through the armor. The hahren had a sickly pallor, his age showing clear in the midday sun. "This is a blight. Blights destroy entire nations. We will all be killed if it isn't stopped. Your father, your cousins. Ness. Myself. Everyone in this alienage. Thousands of others. Rav, this is bigger than any of us. You have been chosen. We need you. All of us."

When Raviathan looked out over the crowd of faces, men and women who had been celebrating his marriage only hours ago, he saw rage and sorrow. News was spreading rapidly through the crowd, and the multitude of voices that had hushed in fear of the guards rose. A few left grumbling that there would be a purge for sure and the wise would leave immediately. Elva's shrill voice complained to any who would listen that the whole alienage had been compromised to save a few, a decision had damned them all. Some of the elves agreed, their grumblings added to the snatches of news and worries.

Salia, at whose wedding he had played music and danced, came up to hug him. She whispered, "Maker bless you, Rav. What you did, you did for all of us. Some of us will always remember that."

He sniffed and hugged her back. "Thank you. Take care of yourself."

Sorrow and rage. It was their day of celebration. He was married to a beautiful woman, one who was going to fill the rest of his days with love, family, and companionship as he would have done for her. The whole alienage, family and friends, neighbors and rivals, had set aside grievances to give them this one day that would be special. This was to be a holy day for them, one that would unite them for the rest of their lives. The crowd parted when he walked through the square. The fragility of their lives was revealed in one harsh blow. Any of them could be taken, and there was no defense. Only rage and sorrow.

He entered Alarith's store not sure if it would be for the last time. "Hey youngin'. So you're off then."

"Yeah." Raviathan swallowed. The shop was thankfully empty. "I'm going to be a Grey Warden." He looked about the shop as if seeing the familiar shelves and goods could steady his life. He had known when he took Duncan's sword that nothing would be the same. Had known that the minute the shems invaded the little corner of homeland his kind had in the city.

Alarith nodded slowly as if it had been inevitable. "They're lucky to have you."

Raviathan shrugged to lighten the mood, though sorrow remained in his eyes. "Better than working at the docks then. Glad you approve."

Alarith came around the counter and hugged him. It was an uncharacteristic display from the Tevinter elf, but then, they had almost been family once. "This place is going to be a lot quieter without you." Raviathan returned the hug resting his chin on Alarith's shoulder. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too." Raviathan ended the hug. "Take care."

Alarith squeezed his shoulder. "You were always meant for better than this place."

Raviathan smiled sadly at his almost uncle. Almost family. He kissed Alarith's cheek then left the little shop and its familiar organized chaos and scents. The cold outside was hard as the bitter southern wind snaked through his clothes to bite his skin. All the elves were still in a buzz, crowding in the street. He started off for Shianni's apartment. It seemed harder to walk now as if he were wading through water. The whole alienage drifted in unreality.

"Rav?"

He looked down to see the face of a young boy who had been one of his first deliveries without Solyn. Even as an infant, the boy had jade green eyes that were far too old to be a child's. "Hey Justen." He knelt down to the boy's height. Everything seemed so distant and flatter somehow. Even the noise and movement from the square felt like it came from behind a bubble.

"Is it true what they're saying? Are you leaving?" Justen had always been a sincere child. He didn't try to hide his emotions, and the sorrow in his old eyes made Raviathan's throat ache.

"Yeah. I have to."

"Why?"

"Because the guards will take me away otherwise."

"But you didn't do anything wrong."

Raviathan kissed the boy on the head. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. It's just unfair, and there's nothing I can do about it." His long fingers stroked the Justen's fine brown hair. "If I can come back and visit, I will." They hugged and Raviathan kissed his temple in parting. Zacky was crying in a corner, and Justen left to hug him. Raviathan pressed his fingers to his lips then waved goodbye. Would it have been so hard to make time to play with them, give the orphans the attention they were starved for? No more.

No one stopped him as he made his way to the apartment building he had called home all his life. He heard angry yelling from across the square but paid it no mind. Shems had done horrible things here before, especially during a purge, but the blatant criminality of the Arl's actions would be remembered for decades. The elves were always divided on whether they should fight back or not. Some were grateful to his mother for defending the alienage, but others said she got what she deserved. Would he miss the rivalries and factions? He never thought he would, but now that his home was drawing away from him, he was clutching at memories he had taken for granted before.

The rough apartment building was colder than the street. The immense shadow cast by the alienage wall only lifted in the afternoon. He went into Shianni's apartment first. Valora and Nesiara were there. "How is she?"

Valora answered in her timid, squeaky voice, "She's calmer now. She'll be okay. Shianni's tough."

Raviathan nodded automatically. He hadn't been able to take his eyes off Nesiara since he entered the room. Valora quietly left looking between the two of them. The words of his father returned to him then. Would his wife be satisfied living wild among the Dalish? How could she be happy running as a fugitive? Nesiara was smudged and dirty from the fire and fighting, a smear of blood on her jaw. More blood on her dress. Gazing at her now, how could he ask her to live the rest of her days in hiding? She deserved better than that. Better than anything he had been able to offer her. "Ness," he began but his throat was closing.

She walked forward to hold him. "Soris overheard. A Grey Warden."

"Ness," he tried again. "I'm so sorry." His vision started to swim.

She whispered, "You saved me. You risked everything to save me."

"I love you." He closed his eyes to keep the tears from falling, but one leaked out anyway. "I can try and come back," he offered.

"Duncan told me that Grey Wardens can't have families."

As much as he didn't want to hear it, he had expected as much. He kissed her hair. This would be the last time he felt the silky softness of her hair against his lips. At least her willowy little body was still hers. That alone was worth giving her up. "I'm sorry, Ness." His chest tightened as he held her close. "I would have done anything for you."

"I know, my love." She sniffed then. He could feel the wet of her tears against his neck.

"I…" It felt like his heart was being crushed by a large fist. He couldn't breathe. "I want you to be happy, Ness. Will you do that for me?" His lips brushed her temple, and he caressed the fine skin of her jaw.

She buried her face in his chest. "Rav," she whispered.

He rubbed her back. "You were the best thing that happened to me in a long time, sweet Ness. I'll always treasure these days. You made me so happy." He leaned down and kissed her tears then lifted her face to look into her cornflower blue eyes. "You made me so very happy. I want you to stay safe and find your happiness. Do that for me, sweet Ness. Make that my wedding gift." It made her cry all the more, but she nodded unable to speak. He kissed her hand. It was rough with calluses and capable of creating beautiful things. How he loved her hands. "You're special, sweet Ness. Don't ever forget that."

He walked away from her towards the second room but stopped before he entered. "Rav," she said softly, "You're the best man I ever knew." There was a squeak of hinges, and the door closed behind him. Nesiara was gone. Duncan had saved him from a hanging, but at this moment it didn't seem like the man had done him much of a favor. She was gone.

The door stood before him with the unreality of a portal to another world. Shianni. The image of her face, crying in pain and humiliation, was more real than the door. Followed that was the image of the human pulling himself off. The line of his sick seed still trailing from her. The small splatter of blood on her upper thigh added to the bruises already forming on her legs. Bile rose in Raviathan's throat. It's ugly acid taste added to the nausea he already felt. He opened the door to see her sitting on her sleeping mat like a vacant and broken doll. He sat next to her. He wanted to touch her but was afraid. 

"Cousin," he said. "I have to leave."

She pushed herself up and wrapped her arms around her legs. "I heard." She looked at his hand for a moment before taking it between hers. "You're off to do great things."

He leaned down and kissed her hand. She stiffened but did not stop him. "I'm sorry, cousin." The apology felt useless. He didn't even know why he bothered saying it. It changed nothing. Shianni had paid the price, and no apologies would take away what happened.

"I don't want anyone to know what happened," Shianni said with fresh steel in her voice. He looked at her then. The sweet grey brown eyes in her child's doll face had hardened. In a few days the bruise that covered half her cheek and jaw would be purple. He knew there were more from the way she walked, stiff and limping. She had said nothing. It was like she shut down a part of herself. "They just think Vaughan roughed me up a bit, and that's all they're going to know. Promise me."

"Cousin," he pleaded feeling shame wash through him like a black rain. He had felt rage and pain at the deaths of his mother and aunt, but not this clawing guilt. Unlike then, this was his fault. He had been overwhelmed by panic to get Shianni and Ness back, but now that she was here and torn, torn and never to be repaired, he felt the full force of his responsibility. He had failed her in the worst way possible. All the training he had gone through in his childhood was useless when he couldn't protect the ones he loved.

Her hand withdrew, and she wrapped her arms around her legs again. "They'll treat me differently. You know that. Elva will call me a whore. The boys will get ideas. I'll either get pitied or picked on." He wanted to hold her and let her tears come as they would have when they were children, but she had shut down. "I'll be fine."

What could he say? It wasn't right to keep this a secret, but he didn't know what else to do for her. "Alright. If that's what you want, I won't tell anyone."

She sniffed and looked at him for the first time. "You promise?"

"Yes Shianni. I promise."

She looked back down. "I love you, cousin."

He had never felt so small and helpless. "I love you too." He left her on the mat. There was nothing he could do for her. No words. If only he were wiser maybe then he could find some way to comfort her, say the right thing to make her feel less alone, less hurt. His feet felt leadened as he trudged up the stairs to his apartment.

Calls from the neighbors accosted him on the way. Some wanted to know what happened or what was going to happen. He ignored them all. These people he had known from childhood. He had made poultices for them or watched their children while they went on some errand. Some had watched him as a child and told him stories or sang lullabies. Nearly every day for eighteen years he had seen their faces and traded gossip or jokes. What would it be like without them?

Soris and his father were in the apartment. His father hurried over to give him a hug. "Oh, son."

"I'm alright, father," he said grateful for his father's wiry strength. "At least this way I'm alive."

A sob escaped the old elf. His grip tightened for a long minute before he let go. "You did the right thing. Your mother… she'd be so proud of you."

Raviathan almost cried when he heard that. He held back the tears with an effort, but his voice was strained. "You think so, father?"

A wide smile cracked the old elf's face as tears welled in his eyes. "I'm sure of it. Being a Grey Warden. I know she thought about that life more than once, but she loved you with all her heart. She thought about it, but she never regretted staying. I think she'd be proud that you'll do something she wanted as well." The tears swam in his blue eyes but didn't fall. "Go and pack up."

"Yes, father." Raviathan gave Soris a look to follow and the two went up the ladder to the upper floor. Raviathan took the oldest pillow case and started adding his few belongings. There wasn't much to pack: his clothes, a comb, sewing kit, an unused wrapped bar of soap, his little leather pouch of lock picks that was hidden under the false bottom of his chest. The lute, fiddle, and pipes would stay. A pouch of coins, some precious stones and jewelry, brandy, and odds and ends he had pilfered at the estate went into the sack as well.

While he packed, Soris said, "You took all the blame. You're amazing cousin, you know that?"

A small sad smile eased Raviathan's lips. "It was nothing."

Soris sat on the bunk bed. "You always were my hero. Now you're an official hero."

"You were there too, Soris."

"What did I do? I was never as brave as you."

He gave Soris a wide silverite bracelet with moonstones set in an ornate filigree. "For Valora. You've got a proper wedding gift for her now."

Soris took the bracelet, turning it over and over. "I didn't earn this."

"Yes you did. Don't let anyone tell you different." Raviathan's chest jerked in a sob. He piled all the coins from the three purses he had taken from the nobles into one and put that in the chest for his family to find. In an empty purse he put the best piece of jewelry he found, a gold necklace with three rubies. "Give this to Ness. Please."

"Sure, cousin." Soris said in a strained voice. "You're going to miss her."

Raviathan lay on the floor to grab the strap of his healer's bag and dragged it out from under the bed. That at least was something he wouldn't have to worry about hiding anymore. "I'm going to miss all of you."

"I know, but you were happy for the first time in years."

Raviathan shrugged. It didn't matter anymore. She was gone. "Soris, following me today, it was brave. My mother trained me, so I knew what I was doing. All you had was a sword you've never held before. I know you don't feel like you're that kind of person, but when you don't think about it, when you just act, you are." He tied the pillow closed with a bit of rope and tied that so it rested on top of his herbalist kit. He could have taken something small like his pan pipes, but the thought of music repelled him.

He looked up at his ornament and hesitated. It belonged to Nesiara now, but he couldn't bear the thought of losing it. I'm stealing from her, he thought. He took it carefully from the tack. The little crystals clinked in a colorful dance. Raviathan held his breath and forced the tears away. It was too delicate to take with him. Instead he stored it under the false bottom of his chest. "Promise you won't tell."

"I promise, cousin."

Finished, Raviathan hopped down the hole to the bottom floor, and Soris handed him his small collection of things.

Nessa had entered the room while he had packed. "Rav. I don't think I can ever repay you for saving us."

He smiled and gave her a hug and kiss goodbye. "Take care of my father, huh? Make sure he eats and all."

Cyrion held his son affectionately by his neck. Raviathan wondered if this would be the last time he felt his father's rough, cold hand. "I'm supposed to say that to you."

The two men stood with their foreheads touching in a moment of silent comfort. Raviathan wondered at his father's strength. Years ago, after his wife was killed, Cyrion had developed a peace that made him able to endure the stings of life with quiet calm. Raviathan had been bothered by it, thought his father too passive. In that moment, Raviathan felt his father's calm and knew it for the strength it was. He would mourn, but he would endure. "Alright son. Be good, and wise, and strong."

"I will, father."

At the bottom floor, Raviathan heard a woman crying from Drioni and Eolas' apartment. "There now, dearie," Eolas's voice was muffled through the door. "We've both lost husbands. It hurts like nothing else. Deep down, and it hurts. Go ahead and cry."

He touched the door, his heart squeezing tight. She was gone. Soris wrapped his arms around Raviathan, rested his face in Raviathan's hair. The tears came try as he might to hold them back. His wife was gone.

"I'm sorry, cousin. I know you loved her."

Raviathan wiped his face and the two left the apartment building together. The square was no less full. Raviathan waved goodbye to the children who had gathered near the orphanage and alleys. They stayed out of the adults' way but had come to see Raviathan leave. All the children waved goodbye. A few cried. "They'll miss you too, cousin."

I'll miss them, Raviathan thought. "Soris, be good to Valora."

The pale elf nodded. "She's a good woman. Has ideas for changing this place for the better. It won't be so bad."

Raviathan grinned. "Better than gargoyles."

"That's right," Soris said smiling with the bittersweet resign they usually saw in adults. "Doesn't this remind you of when we tried to run away to find the Dalish?"

Raviathan's laugh sounded more like a sob. "Yeah. All I need is a frying pan and a fish for my weapons."

"Darkspawn beware!" Soris said clapping a hand on Raviathan's back.

Duncan and Valendrian were waiting, the two in quiet discussion by the gates. As they approached Duncan asked, "Are you ready?"

"Almost." He gave Soris a final hug goodbye, and they kissed on the cheek. "Take care, cousin." He turned to Valendrian who ran his fingers paternally through Raviathan's hair. He gave his hahren a melancholy smile. "There'll be less trouble around here now that I'm going."

Raviathan looked at his hahren with new eyes. Valendrian's crinkled skin was like fine, old porcelain. His white hair gleamed in the shadows of the alienage. Despite his age, the old elf's deep voice carried with a resounding authority. Raviathan had always respected him, but now saw just how sagacious the elf was. He had held the elves together for decades and guided them through crisis after crisis. Raviathan was going to miss his council, his quiet wisdom and absolute integrity. All Valendrian's life had been dedicated to serving his people.

Valendrian pulled him in a hug and they rested their foreheads against each other for a moment. "You were always meant for better things, Rav. Take care, my boy."

Unable to speak, Raviathan kissed him goodbye. Without looking back, he left with Duncan out of the gates and away from his home.


	17. Strange Bedfellows – Days Gone Past

Duncan walked in silence down the Imperial Highway with the elf by his side. So far, Raviathan had remained quiet. That was to be expected after all that had happened, but it was a marked difference from the impassioned man Duncan had met earlier that day. Wrath had poured out of the elf when he realized what had happened while he had lain unconscious. He was still visibly shaking with it when he returned with five of the six women in tow. 

To be honest, Duncan was surprised that the elf had been successful in taking out the entire estate's guards by himself without a scratch. Soris was obviously no warrior, and this one had been showered in blood. Arl Kendells had probably taken most of his guard with him to Ostagar leaving only those too infirm for the journey, too old, or green recruits. Already Denerim had grown rougher since the march south. 

Did the boy truly realize what was in store for him when he sacrificed himself? While he was not going to be cowed by the idea of torture or death, and hate could keep a man sane during torture, Duncan wondered how well he would have fared under that sort of treatment. He had seen men's bodies broken from torture, driven mad by pain. A rampaging elf would have garnered even greater punishment from his torturers. The anger of the citizens would demand that the elf was broken before a public execution, and as much as Duncan admired the elf's ability thus far, he doubted Raviathan could hold out for what could turn into months of ruthless torture.

While conscripting Raviathan saved the boy’s life from mob justice, the problems didn’t end there. How long could he hide the boy from Kendells? He'd have to come up with some plan to keep Raviathan safe from retribution. Not even the King’s favor would be enough to safeguard the elf from Kendell’s vengeance once word got out. Though Kendells might not openly move against the Wardens, all manner of accidents happened on a battlefield. Justice and vengeance were ever fickle twins. 

After the events of the day, Duncan was getting used to the elf watching him with measured hostility. They had been on the road for hours, and he was still getting that glare. At least his newest recruit was no longer antagonistic. There was so much of his mother in him, and Duncan’s thoughts turned to Adaia. Duncan had liked the fiery woman and wished he had the chance to say goodbye, but there were many others like her, warriors or rogues like himself, who had fallen for one reason or another. At least he had been able to provide her son some measure of help, for whatever that was worth. 

The elf had taken less than an hour to say goodbye to everyone he knew and had walked back out with a small pillow sack tied with a length of rope and a hard leather case. Duncan wondered about the case but didn’t ask. Raviathan seemed closed and needing quiet. Duncan would wait until the elf was ready. The studded leather vestment and skirt the elf had found at the estate fit him poorly as it was designed for a human, but it was probably the only armor the elf had ever worn. They would have to do something about his woefully inadequate equipment at Dragon's Peak. It was getting late. The sun hung low in the sky, red bleeding into the hazy winter gloom. There was a small inn for travelers they should be able to make just after sunset. 

Duncan pulled his cloak tighter around him against the Ferelden winter. Although the season had been unusually dry and mild, at least according to Ferelden’s brutal standards, the cold wind was making his bones ache. Most likely this winter would be his last. There was some time yet, a few months, for him to prepare Allonese to take over as Warden-Commander. The man was calm and thoughtful. He might not have the authority to command contingents as large as Orlais or the Free Marches, but Ferelden's score of Wardens would not be a problem.

They all respected Allonese, even Tamriel who was disposed to detest all humans and Greigor who preferred to follow strength. That was the past, Duncan reminded himself. Greigor had come a long way in the last ten years. He was much calmer now and had started taking on a slow but thoughtful wisdom. Ten years ago Alistair would have been borne the brunt of hazing or have been bullied about, but Greigor had mellowed and treated the boy with the affection he would bestow a young brother. Duncan would talk with Allonese about it, but he thought Greigor would make a decent Warden-Commander when Allonese needed to take the Calling.

Now that the Calling was coming, Duncan had taken to reflection more. He had seen many fine men and women take the Calling before him and those who were not so fine. The events of his life had humbled his angry youth and made this just another step on his path to the Maker. Not that he was overly religious, but he had done a lot of good with the time he had. Perhaps being a Grey Warden and witnessing firsthand what the taint would eventually do, the choices they had to make, had instilled the inevitability of his fate and given his life more meaning. It wouldn't be long, but he could be proud of his life and face what is to come. He hoped the Blight would be ended quickly so he could go to the Maker knowing that peace, but if nothing else, Ferelden was warned. The Grey Wardens had seen humanity through before, and they would again and again as long as there were Grey Wardens.

Lately he had wondered about Fiona. Was she still alive? Supposedly she would be the first Grey Warden who wouldn't have to take the Calling when she reached the critical age for the taint. The feisty elf might have a few choice words for him if she didn't blast him out right. Despite the years Duncan didn't think her temper would have dulled with age. He had promised the elf he would look after her son, but once the boy had been sent to the abbey, there was no way for Duncan to check up on him. The poor child had been looked after, better than most bastard children would have been, but it grieved Duncan to see him torn between loneliness and rage for his lot without a family's comfort. Though he himself had spent many a hard year living in the streets in Val Royeaux in his youth, he at least had known the love and comfort of a family as a child. The loss of his parents was more painful for the love he had known, but it had also given him a solid foundation that had served him well the rest of his life, short as it may be.

Those early years when the Wardens were reestablishing in Ferelden had been tricky indeed. The Warden-Commander Weisshaupt had sent had been a sturdy man, organized and an intelligent communicator. For all the Commander's persuasive powers, Loghain had never done more than glower their way. It had been enough that they had maintained the Order's presence when Maric was lost at sea. Cailan wasn't at an age when he could oppose Loghain like he did today, and that man's diplomacy in their early years had made the difference.

That thought brought another that was far more troubling. Cailan was finally stepping into his role as king, but he was not near the king Maric had been. The Wardens needed his assistance to defeat the Blight, and that was their duty above all else. If they needed to burn down villages, use treachery or treason, conscript lords and ladies or criminals, perform regicide, or use a king's well intentioned but ill forged idealism, that was what they did. That had been a bitter lesson in his youth. As a killer, Duncan had been tasked to perform such if it kept the Warden's secrets and helped them in their task. He didn't owe Cailan any loyalty; however, the use of the king's fanciful ideals bothered Duncan. With the Blight coming Ferelden could ill afford a foolish regent. Anora may be the real ruler, but Cailan was the figurehead that kept the nation focused. The rest of the Wardens who Duncan had chosen to deal with Cailan liked him well enough to hide their mild contempt. They knew what was at stake.

The sun was down leaving only shadows in the darkening indigo light. As old wounds ached in the cold, Duncan was less and less willing to camp when he had an option for a soft bed. There would be enough cold tents in the coming weeks. The inn was care worn but sturdy and was able to stay clean enough that it avoided some of the nastier types that could hole up in a place so far from a proper city. As dusk was settling, many field hands and general workers would congregate in a place like this for music and food, especially if they had yet to take a wife. It might be a little rough, but it would also be a good test of Raviathan in an unfamiliar setting.

The elf by his side was looking about wide eyed as any country boy in a city. He stayed close, almost like a second shadow as he looked about. As Duncan had guessed, the inn was full of farm hands and a few young women who were trying to catch a future husband's eye. There was a small stage in the main room and a minstrel setting up with a lute. The bartender was a balding, potbellied man of middle years. His nose was red with broken capillaries and he needed a shave to keep from looking like a bandit. Duncan said, "We need a room."

"We got a room left in the back. One bed," the bartender croaked in a whiskey roughened voice. "Rest is full."

"Is it clean?"

The bartender eyed him blearily. "Clean as you'll get around here."

"Alright, we'll take a look."

The bartender harrumphed and handed Duncan a key and lamp. "Up the stairs, down the hall, last one on the right." He glowered at Raviathan. "Take care your servant doesn't steal anything."

Raviathan crossed his arms and looked down but held his tongue. Duncan glared at the man and put an arm around the elf's shoulders. "Don't let him get to you, Rav."

The elf nodded but kept silent.

The interior hall was dark. Sounds of shuffling feet or low conversation from the other rooms indicated thin walls. Once inside their room Duncan set down the lamp and looked about. There was a small cabinet next to a wash basin by the door and a chest with a key in the lock. A double bed dominated the middle of the room with a small frosted window on the opposite end. "Well, the bed is big enough to share."

Duncan looked over to see the elf glare at him. "Share," Raviathan said slowly with clear disgust.

The elf's tone caught him by surprise. The room was modest but clean. Considering the alienage, this had to be a step up if not several.

"That is, unless you prefer to sleep on the floor," Duncan said confused by the elf's reaction. Raviathan flicked his eyes up and down pulling away slightly as if Duncan was dirty. It took Duncan a moment to understand the elf's resurging hostility. Duncan winced as his own irritation surfaced. To even think it. "What do you take me for, lad?"

"Share a bed? I don't even know you!" Raviathan shot back.

Duncan frowned at the unexpected retort. "Then sleep on the floor. It makes no difference to me."

The elf muttered under his breath as he snatched a pillow and top cover for a makeshift bed under the window. "Shems. Are we all just whores to you?"

In that instant Duncan forgot the trials the elf had already faced that day. "Now see here! I have no intentions of having sex with you. Ever." He didn't mind men who preferred the company of other men, but he wasn't one of them. What bothered him was the elf's casual assumptions that he was a lecher, as if that were his reason for recruiting the boy.

"No," the elf returned angrily, "just sleep with me."

"Yes, sleep. And only sleep. What's wrong with that?" asked Duncan. Raviathan looked at him scandalized. Duncan sighed, reigned in his own anger, and reminded himself of the day's events. "Rav, I've conscripted you to be a Grey Warden. Not because I need a pet or bed warmer."

"Then why ask me to share the bed," he said, not bothering to hide the accusation.

"Because there is only one room available, and I thought you'd prefer that to a cold, hard floor. But have it your own way."

The elf glowered at him. "Why by Andraste's ass would you think I'd prefer to share a bed?"

Duncan had had enough. He may be getting old but surely he wasn't so repulsive that the sharing of a large bed for sleep was treated with such disgust. He set down his pack not bothering to put anything away. "I'm going downstairs for dinner. You are welcome to join me if that doesn't offend your sensibilities."

The elf harrumphed but followed him out the door. Duncan sighed. He had hoped Raviathan wouldn't have Tamriel's standoffishness, but that didn't look like it was to be the case. They both had just reasons for their anger, but it made integration with the Grey Wardens difficult, and he did try to foster an inclusive attitude. Of course Raviathan could still be reacting from what happened earlier. He was young enough that maybe some time and new experiences would be able to change his opinions.

The main room was packed by the time they returned. The minstrel had started playing the lute and singing at the far end. Some of the tables and chairs had been pushed back to make a dance space indicating that the minstrel was probably passing through and playing for his nightly board rather than a routine player. It crowded the already full room. The stink of body odor was strong combined with garlic and onions typical of peasants' meals. With the freezing winters, it was their first and main defense against illness.

Raviathan stayed close with his arms folded over his chest, slouched, and looking about with quick nervous glares. Duncan found a table at the far end away from the minstrel. Not trusting the maids for service, Duncan left to the bar to pay for the room, order their meals and two pints of ale. Raviathan stayed hunched with his back to the wall and chair turned sideways making a barrier with the chair back. He looked suspiciously at the ale Duncan set before him and pointedly turned away. So he thinks I'm going to ply him with alcohol now? Duncan asked, "You don't like ale?"

Raviathan placed his heel on the chair seat and hugged his leg to him. If nothing else, Duncan was impressed with the lad's flexibility. "I prefer water." There was a less than subtle hint that the elf believed exactly what Duncan suspected.

Duncan ignored the insult and flicked his head towards the bar. "Be my guest."

Raviathan looked at him with those strange flashing eyes that gleamed in the low light as if lit from the inside. Most humans were unnerved by elven eyes, and though Duncan had become a little more accustomed to them, moments like this reminded him of just how unusual elves were. Elven eyes were strange colors, too bright, and the shine far too alien. Raviathan got up and left for the bar. Duncan watched as he had to repeatedly call for the bartender's attention. The bald man was ignoring him more than what would be reasonable for the crowded room. He and the elf exchanged a few words, then Raviathan returned with nothing and sat as he had before. Duncan sipped at his ale. "No water?"

Raviathan was watching the minstrel but answered without looking. "There's a well out back he said."

That was rude, thought Duncan. Any inn would have some water ready for weary travelers. "He didn't give you a glass at least?"

Raviathan shrugged. "When you've finished your ale, I'll take that one."

Duncan said, "Take your glass. Pour the ale on the ground if you wish."

That did earn him a look. "Waste the ale?"

"You're not going to drink it," said Duncan.

"But," the elf sputtered, "that's wasteful. If you don't want it at least give it to somebody."

Duncan smiled as he leaned back to watch the minstrel and few dancers. The lad was frustrating at times, but he couldn't help but like him. Thick rabbit stew and dark bread was brought along with a bowl of mashed turnips and salad of roasted fall vegetables. Raviathan's eyes widened at the banquet before him, but Duncan started without preamble. Picking hesitantly at the food, Raviathan said almost too quietly for Duncan to hear over the crowd, "Thank you."

"I don't stand on ceremony. Take what you want," Duncan replied. The elf ate with small bites as his eyes darted about the room. He was certainly a study in contrasts. "Is everything alright?"

Raviathan bit his lips. "I'm not used to being around so many humans. I keep feeling like I'm going to be stepped on."

Duncan's white teeth flashed all the brighter for his dark skin. When he finished his ale, he handed the glass over to Raviathan who left without a word exchanged. Duncan watched as the lad darted between the press of people without them taking notice. The minstrel started a ballad of a lady mourning her lost lover at the Battle of West Hill during the occupation of Orlais. Duncan sighed as he thought about all the potential recruits he lost during this trip. The journey almost wasn't worth it as only three were awaiting the Joining. Of those, who would survive? Had Aedan survived the sack of Highever? Duncan regretted now that he had not pressed Ser Gilmore into service. He had left the determined man to defend the castle though they both knew it was helpless. Try as he might, he couldn't find Aedan anywhere in the castle, only the bodies of the rest of the family. Both of the ladies at the castle had been violated. Though he did not know them well, he was sure one was the wife of Bryce's son, Fergus. Such brutality happened when soldiers were filled with battle lust. It was a damn pity, but it also raised troubling questions about Howe. He was a sycophant if ever Duncan met one, but he had to be working with the protection of another, more powerful lord backing his treachery.

At the end of the song, Duncan turned to look for the elf, who had been gone more than long enough to fetch his water. To his surprise Raviathan had been backed against a wall by a large, heavy man with the ruddy face of someone who was too often in his cups. Duncan started to get up to intercede when he noticed Raviathan's down cast eyes look up hopefully at the human then fill with regret as he glanced at Duncan. Was the elf planning on getting rid of him? If so, that was a mistake, the old warrior thought coldly. Duncan had been expecting something along these lines though. The boy was bound to make at least one or two escape attempts before he learned better. The other man looked at Duncan, measuring, then said something further to the elf who gifted the drunkard with a demure smile then rubbed the man's bicep looking coquettish. The man glared at Duncan for a minute then left for the bar. The elf returned to the table and sat as if nothing had happened. Duncan also returned to his chair eyeing the elf. "What was that about?" he demanded.

Raviathan shrugged with one shoulder as he went back to his dinner. "We're leaving tomorrow morning, right?"

"Yes."

"Good. I told him a violent swordsman, that's you, had already paid for me for the full night, but tomorrow he could have me at half price because he was so strong and handsome."

Duncan blinked in surprise. "You did what?"

Raviathan looked up with those strange, large eyes as guileless as a child. He finished chewing and said, "He's drunk. Best way to deal with them is to agree. I didn't think you wanted me to slice him open right here in front of everyone, so I told him what he wanted to hear. By the way, he thinks we're staying in the room those men are," he said indicating two messenger soldiers with a flick of his eyebrow, "just in case he gets some bright ideas during the night."

Duncan thought the elf was telling the truth, but he was surprised considering the man's earlier aversion to humans. "Are you going to warn those soldiers?"

The elf looked at him askance. "They're going to be our alarm if that man does try anything. Why give that up? Besides, it's two against one, and they're soldiers. They can handle it."

It was a bit of trickery that Duncan would have used in his early Warden days or when he was a street thief had he the wit if a man propositioned him. Maybe that's why he liked the elf. Catching Duncan's smile of approval, the elf grinned back with a embarrassed duck of his head, and then Duncan was certain the elf had not lied to him. "I'm surprised you're not more bothered by such attention."

The elf shrugged, and Duncan got the impression that Raviathan had issues with such, but now was not the time to go into it.

The minstrel wasn't particularly talented, and the dancing was clumsy, but both acquitted themselves with enthusiasm. Watching rivalries and plays for attention between the people gathered for the evening interested Duncan more. Though most dismissed Duncan as another travelling swordsman, Raviathan got a wide array of looks ranging from condescending to disgusted to downright lustful. The elf had barricaded himself on three sides with the table, wall, and chair back and drew up his knees once he was finished with his meal. Had he been alone, this place would have been dangerous for him. The vulnerability he was unconsciously projecting would hopefully diminish as Raviathan became more accustomed to humans, otherwise it was going to cause the elf no end of difficulties.

"Perhaps we should retire," Duncan suggested over the din of voices, heavy dance steps, and music. The elf frowned but followed him back to their room.

Once inside the room it was quiet enough to talk, though the playing of the minstrel and thumps of heavy feet sounded dully through the walls. Raviathan asked, "Bit early isn't it?"

Again that presumption. Duncan sighed as he removed his armor ready to shed the extra weight. The Ferelden cold seeped through the walls making everything cold to the touch. The washbasin had a thin layer of ice just starting along the edge of the porcelain sides. The bed was stone cold. "You were not oblivious to the looks you were receiving, I'm sure. I thought it best to get you out of there before some alcohol induced ideas got into too many heads."

"I can take care of myself," the elf retorted, his enmity renewed.

"I'm sure you can, but perhaps I don't feel like being your pretend customer having to defend my purchase."

Raviathan looked like he had been slapped. "Don't talk to me like that!"

Oh for love of the Maker. "Rav," he said sternly. "It's been a long day. We both need some sleep, and I for one would appreciate it if you didn't treat me as some sick lecher. I've been tolerant of that so far because of what you've been through, but enough. It's ungracious and unworthy of you, and I'll have no more of it."

The hostility drained out as Raviathan's forehead furrowed, and he looked down. His shoulders hunched as his hands crossed over his stomach. He looked lost and vulnerable again. "I'm sorry, Duncan. I've never been treated so well by a human before. I keep waiting for you to turn into a monster."

"I know things have tough for you at the alienage, but we humans are not all such callous villains."

Finished with most of his armor, he sat on the edge of the bed and took off his leg guards. Only the faintest shift told him that Raviathan was sitting on the bed with him. Finished, he looked over to see the elf sitting at the foot of the bed, bent down, his head in his hands. "Rav?"

"I keep thinking about what happened. I keep seeing it. Over and over. Those guards. Some of them must have had families."

Duncan sat with his forearms resting on his thighs as he regarded the elf. "Some of them probably did."

"I've never killed anyone before," he confessed in the still room. "What I did… I don't understand half of it."

Duncan rubbed his forehead as he reminded himself of what Valendrian had said about the boy. The venerable elf had wanted the boy to take over as hahren when he stepped down, that even as a child Raviathan showed unusual compassion and sensitivity. He had been a thoughtful child, watchful and curious even with all the trouble making. It was never easy to kill a man, even when it was deserved. Some were more difficult than others, but the first time was always a marker in life. Ser Guy's death was the murder that had changed the course of Duncan's life.

Shifting to sit next to the elf, Duncan put a hand on Raviathan's shoulder as he composed what he would say. To his complete surprise Raviathan curled into his chest and started to sob. Duncan stared down in startelment. A deceptively delicate hand reached up to clench his tunic as the young elf cried against him. Raviathan wasn't loud, but his body shook with the totality of his grief. Duncan blinked, alarmed by the display. He took in a long steadying breath as the elf continued to weep.

Now that he looked at it, Raviathan had been using the anger to keep away the pain. It would have been obvious if only he hadn't been distracted with other concerns. The boy isn't made of stone, thought Duncan. Raviathan's grief was actually quite heart wrenching, and Duncan chided himself for not recognizing it earlier. Why did he expect so much more from this boy than he would most any other man? Raviathan curled in tighter, and Duncan held him firmly as the sobs continued.

Raviathan was young, had to give up his new wife who he had apparently loved despite their short time together, and had killed for the first time only just that morning. The elf didn't just kill a man, he had taken out all the guards and three lords at the estate nearly by himself. His resolve had been startling. At the elf's age, Duncan had been much wilder and struggled with his new life as a Grey Warden. So far the elf had accepted his new lot with far more grace than Duncan had, than most recruits who were forcibly conscripted for that matter. The boy's just lost everything he's known and is out in a world he's never seen. Tears were easy to allow.

The intermittent thumping of dancers and music from the main room was the only sign of passing time. Duncan ruminated over the Wardens. He would not live to see this blight ended. His thoughts travelled to Alistair, and he worried for the young man. Duncan hoped that the other Wardens would see their newest member through when Duncan either died on the field or took the Calling. Alistair's need for acceptance was painful to watch, but he was a good lad. Duncan couldn't help but allow his repressed paternal instincts take root in Alistair's case.

Too few Grey Wardens. Duncan should have been more aggressive in recruiting in the last twenty years as Ferelden was in dire need of Wardens now, but the sacrifice had always been a difficult one. Though Loghain's distrust of the Wardens made for an easy excuse, the sacrifice demanded of the Grey was what truly weighed on Duncan's shoulders. Until Vaughan had made that choice for him, he wasn't sure he would have been able to take Raviathan from the life the young man had so clearly wanted.

Duncan looked down realizing that the lad had actually stopped crying some time ago but was resting against his chest. He had been so lost in thought he hadn't noticed. Duncan squeezed his shoulder and the elf slowly sat up. Raviathan flexed his neck and back with a wince. He said quietly, "Thank you," then got up to wash his face in the little half frozen basin.

"Killing is never an easy thing," Duncan started, "especially your first. It's normal to grieve even if it was the right thing to do or you had no choice. It just shows you have a heart. Be patient with yourself, Rav. It’s going to take time before you’ll be at peace with what happened, and that’s normal. But I want you to consider something. If given the choice again, to stay in the alienage or go after Vaughan, would you still have done what you did?"

Raviathan kept his head down, his eyes rimmed in red. "Yes."

"You made a choice to save your kin who did not choose violence and had no options. They would have been brutalized and more would have died if you hadn't interceded. Those guards chose to be guards knowing it could mean their life one day." Duncan stood to put a hand on Raviathan's shoulder. "We all make choices for good or ill. In this case, remember who the true innocents were, who the tyrant was, and who protected who."

It would take time for the realization to settle, but the cry had seemed to do Raviathan some good. For the first time he saw respect and trust reflected in those strange, bright eyes. Raviathan said quietly, "Thank you, Duncan."

He gripped the elf's shoulder and nodded. "Anytime you want to talk about it." With a cock of an eyebrow Duncan said, "Let's get some sleep, shall we? Things always feel worse when you're tired."

Raviathan gave him a small half smile and settled down to roll up in the blanket on the floor. Duncan sent a prayer that the boy would survive the Joining. Only three recruits, and the archdemon was coming. Duncan's feet were numb, which the cold bed did nothing to alleviate. The two thin blankets were little more than a suggestion against the cold.

So many had been lost. So much potential: Aedan's courage and strength, Duran's military experience and tactical mind, the untapped potential Irving had written about his favorite pupil, Neria. Now he had an overly honor bound knight, a quick street thief, and an angry elf. Duncan tried to double wrap his feet in the blankets and rubbed them together for a little warmth. Raviathan seemed a bit too fragile under the anger, but they would know for sure in a week's time. Sleep came despite the cold, and with it the taint induced dreams.


	18. Strange Bedfellows – Trust

The elf was a little more talkative the next day. Perhaps inquisitive was a better word considering the barrage of questions he asked since they started on the road. "Am I the only recruit you have?"

"No," Duncan replied. "There are two others who will be at Ostagar by the time we arrive. Jory and Daveth." Waking up twice from a combination of cold and taint induced nightmares, Duncan had added an extra layer of socks as well as his bedroll to the inn’s meager blankets but still woke up frozen numb. The elf, by all appearances, was in no better condition. He'd been curled in a ball, shivering when Duncan woke him. A simple breakfast huddled in front of the main room's fire had helped take the edge off, but Duncan was still stiff.

"How did you recruit them?"

"Jory was in a tournament in Highever. He is skilled with two-handed weapons. Quite eager to join." Duncan wasn't about to tell Raviathan his misgivings. Though Jory had shown skill, Duncan feared his desire to join stemmed from a belief that the Grey Wardens were simply a heroic order of knights. Duncan had seen that often, men who joined out of a sense of pride but who did not comprehend the enormity of the sacrifice being one of the Grey demanded. While that was not a prerequisite, it could lead to disillusionment later. It had with Genevieve. But with a blight on the way, Duncan felt he had no excuse for excluding the man. "Daveth was a street thief."

The elf seemed to take the news of a street thief in stride. "So Jory was recruited before Howe sacked Highever?" There was a tone to his voice, just the slightest undercurrent of anger, that made Duncan wonder what connections he might have to the Arl. He was surprised the elf knew about it. Most of his kind couldn't care less about human politics, but then Howe was known to dislike elves. Maybe they only kept track of the humans most likely to cause them trouble. That hadn't been Duncan's experience though. Most were dismissive of any lord or the goings on of humans. Tamriel certainly was. It seemed like Raviathan would eventually be a little more open than the other elf. Tamriel, while he was a fine fighter, was more reclusive and bitter which kept him separate from his brothers. Though Raviathan certainly had just cause for some bitterness, he also seemed more open to change.

"He was the first during this recruiting session," Duncan said. "There were two others I had my eye on, but they were off visiting another holding. I returned later to test the knight, but I'm not sure what happened to him in the chaos. The last I saw, he was defending the main hall." They both had known how futile that had been, but it was Gilmore's last action to save as many as he could. "My first choice was the second son of the Cousland family, Aedan, but his father was against it. Unfortunately, I think he fell that night. I only just managed to escape."

"Howe would have attacked a Grey Warden? I thought you were neutral, above such politics."

"Don't ask mobs or despots for reason." The elf conceded the point with a nod. Duncan could almost see the wheels turning in his mind as he considered the issue. "I am surprised you know about Highever."

The elf crossed his arms and looked down. He answered quietly. "Ness was from Highever. She and her family just got out before there was a purge on the alienage."

So, thought Duncan, his wife is a sore spot after all. Duncan recalled the elf's face as he danced with his wife looking as if the Maker's light shined for him alone. They had moved with the grace of an old couple who had danced those steps for decades. Duncan knew they had only been together for two months or so and was surprised to see how close they had become in that time. Adaia had been given a choice because there was no Blight. If not for Vaughan, Duncan wasn't sure he'd have been able to conscript the lad. "There were a few others I was looking for, a dwarven noble, but he died before I was able to recruit him. There was also a promising young woman there, but she did not make it I'm afraid."

"What happened?"

"She ran afoul of a criminal organization."

It was amazing how many of his potential recruits had died, Raviathan thought as looked up at his new commander again. It put his own recent escapade in a new light. Maybe the stuff that makes a Grey Warden also singles them out in other ways. "If there's a Blight on, why not have more?"

"Well, first off Grey Wardens only recruit the best."

The elf cocked his head at him. "You would consider me the best?"

Duncan's mellow voice, dignified with a touch of hoarseness that Raviathan liked listening to, continued, "You took out an entire estate's worth of guards and well trained lords. I would put that high on my list." The elf looked forward along the Imperial Highway as he pondered that. Duncan kept watching him. He was a curious one. "There have been other complications as well. I had my eye on about ten possible recruits, you being one of them."

The numbers seemed unreal. Out of ten, and he was the only one walking with Duncan now. How could so many have fallen? "How much did you know about me though?"

"That Adaia's son was about of age to be recruited. I was hoping you would be your mother's son. Seems I was proven right."

"But you said, 'the best'. You didn't know anything about me."

"I knew you were Adaia's son. That alone was worth looking for you."

Not satisfied with the answer, Raviathan shook his head but let the subject drop. "What about the Cousland son? You said you wanted him as well, and with the Right of Conscription, why bow to his father's wishes? You said the Blight comes over all other concerns."

"True," Duncan replied, "but the Right of Conscription is not without consequence. I'd rather have a family as powerful as the Couslands as an ally instead of having them cut me off from recruiting in the future. They had connections which could also cause difficulties with the other nobles."

After a moment the elf said quietly, "That's why you couldn't help me directly. It'd cut you off from the other nobles who would be angry that the Grey Wardens intervened."

"Quite right."

"You said Blights take decades if not a century to defeat. It's better to take a long range view than what you need immediately."

"Smart lad," Duncan said. Just as Valendrian had said, the elf was thoughtful and reflective. Once he got past his anger, he really was quite insightful.

"How long have you known King Cailan then?"

What had been pleasure at seeing the elf's insight turned to the beginning of alarm. Though the elf had asked the question with the same innocence as the rest, Raviathan was putting things together too quickly. "A number of years. Teyrn Loghain has been the regent for most of that time. Unfortunately, he takes a dim view of the Wardens."

"Why is that?"

"Did you know our Order was exiled?"

The elf looked up at him with interest. "What happened?"

Thankful that the distraction had worked for the moment, Duncan started, "Not everything is known about what happened, but it started with a political coup between the Lady Sophia Dryden and her brother, Arland, for the crown about two hundred and fifty years ago. Arland took the crown, and in lieu of execution, had Sophia made a Grey Warden. You see, Grey Wardens can't have families or titles. We inherit nothing and must relinquish any claims of property or title. But that doesn't mean our former lives are forgotten. Sophia still maintained contacts with many of the nobles and she was quite popular in the Order.

"When Arland turned out to be a tyrant, many of the nobles went to her for support in a rebellion. The Grey Wardens who did not agree with Sophia left Ferelden to join other factions. What was left, around two hundred Grey Wardens, were almost successful in their coup." Raviathan's eyes went wide as he calculated the numbers. "As you know, one of the edicts of our Order is to remain neutral, and this is why. Even if the land is governed by a tyrant, we risk too much if we involve ourselves. The darkspawn are our only concern. Because of Sophia, we were exiled for more than two hundred years until King Maric allowed our Order to return. That was just some twenty years ago."

Wind was gusting from the south, bringing a chill that penetrated through their clothes. "Why did King Maric allow us back in?"

The 'us' as part of the Order was not lost on Duncan. He wasn't sure if Raviathan truly meant that or if he was playing a part until he was close enough to the Brecillian Forest that he could attempt an escape. Considering the circumstances of Raviathan’s conscription, Duncan expected more of a fight from the elf and didn’t trust this easy acceptance. "I will tell you after you are officially joined to the Order."

Duncan could feel the elf's eyes on him again. It wasn't distrustful, but he could practically feel the elf's mind at work. Again, he was impressed with the elf's intelligence. After a few minutes, Raviathan asked, "How did you become a Grey Warden?"

The dark man did not speak at first. "That is perhaps a story best left to another time."

Raviathan noticed the human was watching him as much as he was watching the human. If Duncan didn't want to speak of his past, Raviathan wasn't going to push him, but he did find Duncan interesting. There was a story, more likely many, in the human, and he was a sucker for a good story. The training he received from his mother and aunt had made him patient if nothing else. He may not hear the story now, but once he learned more about Duncan, learned his behavior and mannerisms, he'd find out. One of the other Grey Wardens might know, which would take less time. In any case, he liked listening to Duncan so switched the topic. "What can you tell me about the history of the Grey Wardens?" A thought occurred to him. "Have there been many elven Grey Wardens?"

To his pleasant surprise, Duncan went on for hours recounting the story of Garahel, the elven Warden who had ended the Fourth Blight and drove back the darkspawn.

The story of Garahel had the effect Duncan had hoped for. One, it distracted the elf from more uncomfortable topics. Though he knew Raviathan had not forgotten the questions that went unanswered, perhaps this would satisfy his curiosity enough to let the others go for a time. Two, it helped him see that he would be valued as an elf, that his race had just as much history and rights in the Grey Wardens. Third, Duncan hoped to impress on him the importance of the Grey Wardens and how vital they were. If the elf understood his importance in the near future, he might be less likely to run away.

The hours passed easily enough, and the two became more companionable. The imposing mountain fortress that was Dragon's Peak was visible from miles away. Raviathan was awed by the fortress like city that perched like a raptor high on the black rock mountain. The mountain was reminiscent of an immense dragon head, from which it received its name. "Are we going to the city?"

Duncan looked up at the massive peak. "Not exactly. I'm hoping to find a vendor closer to the bottom for some basic equipment. There's an inn I want to make before night, and ascending the peak would take out more hours from the day than I'm willing to spend."

Raviathan was disappointed, but he got Duncan started on the Battle of Ayesleigh and that was interesting enough.

The vendors at the base were almost a village onto themselves and catered to travelers and farmers who didn't live in the shelter of the city. Though the Denerim Market carried much more exotic trade from various nations, this was the first time Raviathan had seen another town. A large circle of the dark grey stone of the mountain had been cut away to form a space for all the stalls. Tradetown, as it was called, was conducted at the base of the mountain, and most vendors had a second stall in the city proper for the townsfolk. The whole of Tradetown would stay in the shadow until the midday sun rose over the mountain. At the far side was the first of many gates up to the city. It was inconvenient for business, but a more defensible fortress there was not.

The elf looked about with open curiosity but was content to follow Duncan who looked like he knew where he was going. Duncan said, "You look around like that and you'll be the first target for thieves."

The elf didn't stop though, and his nose lifted to catch the scent of baking pasties from the food stalls on the right. "It's small enough that everyone here knows who's a regular and who's passing through. I'm marked anyway except a poor elf like me isn't worth the trouble for some old clothes that won't fit anyone. I'd take that one first," Raviathan said indicating a henpecked man who was dejectedly following a plump wife. "No weapons, has plenty of money for food, bored and careless. Besides," he said batting his eyelashes at Duncan, "I've got my big, strong warrior with me."

Duncan mouth twitched as he suppressed a grin. "No stealing."

"Wasn't planning on it," he replied.

The first stop was a tailor with some ready made clothing for travelers who could not wait for commissioned attire. Raviathan looked at the goods absently for a bit, but when boredom got the better of him, he wandered over to a nearby paddock by the first gate to Dragon's Peak. There was dung and hay, both unfamiliar scents. Raviathan was use to the garbage of a city and the scent of animals struck him as somehow warmer than the sewage and acidic piss common in the poor sections of a city. Though Raviathan had seen a rich nobleman's horse once, this was the first time he had ever seen donkeys. Dog and ox carts were common for transporting goods in Ferelden with only the nobility able to afford something as exotic as a horse. Horses were never used for anything but displaying wealth.

The horse he had seen had been a beautiful animal with a shining dark coat, Raviathan could admit that, but though fine the animal had been high strung. It had been frightened by the crowd and bared its teeth, its head jerking up high, ears flattened and eyes rolled back. The noble had struck it with a riding crop, making the already aggressive animal balk, its steel shoes striking on the cobble stone street in a loud, painfully sharp staccato. Raviathan and the rest of the elves had shied back knowing they would have been nothing to the huge animal and easily crushed. A year later he and his aunt had cared for a woman whose legs had been trampled by a horse. Even though she would regain the use of her legs, the young woman would bear the marks for the rest of her life. Between the two experiences, he was nervous around the giant animals.

These round, little beasts were quite tame with long flicking ears and fuzzy winter coats, and though solid, were not at all like the imposing muscle of a full horse. Maybe it was just he felt a kinship with smaller animals with long ears, but these creatures had the friendliness of pets. Amused by the odd beasts, Raviathan rubbed a docile roan's nose who grunted in contentment at the affection.

"You be wanting passage then?" an old hunched man asked.

"No, ser," Raviathan replied, stepping back with his head down. "I meant no offense."

Despite his age, the little man appeared wiry. "This one here is Tully," he replied conversationally.

"These are donkeys, aren't they?" Raviathan ventured. "I've never seen one before."

"Oh sure'n they be. Sturdy things they are. Stronger than they look too. Best way to get up the switchbacks, road's as narrow as it be. Here." Unsure about the invitation, Raviathan watched the man cut an apple. "Keep your fingers flat."

Raviathan did as he was shown and smiled as the donkey's soft lips roamed over his hand until he found the apple slice. Powerful, blunt teeth scraped his palm, and Raviathan realized the creature would have been able to bite off his fingers had the man malicious intent and told him the wrong way of holding the apple. He examined the man again, wondering at his kindness.

"Rav," Duncan called.

"Thank you, ser," he said quietly. "Excuse me." He couldn’t help a glance back over his shoulder at the elder human.

To Raviathan's surprise Duncan had chosen clothes that were the closest a vendor had to fit an elf. Elves generally made their own clothing, since tailors were expensive, and ready made articles for the poorer customers were all human sized and were only done when a tailor had no other orders. Elven sizes were a rare find at best. The shirts and pants Duncan had bought him, along with a warm cloak for rain, were the smallest available but were over large. At Raviathan's suggestion, Duncan also bought him a simple, grey wool blanket and had the tailor cut a hole in the center so Raviathan could belt it around his waist as a makeshift poncho. "Thank you, Duncan. I've never had tailor made clothes before."

"Think nothing of it. I'm only sorry we can't find something that fits better." Next they found an armorer who was able to make some adjustments to the studded leather armor Raviathan wore so that it fit better, but it was a hopeless cause for the time they had. "Here," Duncan said handing Raviathan two silvers. "Meet me at the road in an hour and bring lunch."

Duncan kept an eye on the elf as he bought a bedroll for the boy and some rations. The old warrior visited with contacts and gathered news and rumors, but mainly he was curious to see what the boy did with some unsupervised freedom. The elf bartered with a vendor over a silverite bowl and candlestick. The vendor was originally not going to deal with him, claiming the goods were stolen, but the elf was able to talk the woman into a fair price.

From there he visited an apothecary stand where he spent considerable time talking to the stout woman. She had been dismissive of the boy at first but warmed to him considerably after a few minutes. They wrote out various recipes to exchange, discussed techniques, and she showed him the multitude of oils and compounds, holding some up to the light and explaining them thoroughly. She glanced around surreptitiously, making sure the guards were busy, then invited the boy behind the stall. They continued to discuss in low voices, casting out the occasional glance to make sure they had privacy. When Raviathan took his leave, they clasped hands with friendly farewells and smiles.

Next the boy bought three books and finally some pasties and mini berry pies with the two silvers Duncan had given him. On time, the elf trotted up to him handing Duncan two of the pasties and two mini pies keeping one of each for himself. When he handed out the left over coppers, Duncan said, "Keep them," speaking around the vegetable and poultry delight in his mouth. Overall he had been impressed with the elf's initiative and purpose and that he hadn't tried to run away, not that this would be the best place to try.

When they left Tradetown, Duncan started on a wide hard packed dirt road that intersected the Bannorn instead of returning to the Imperial Highway. Duncan explained that they would be stopping by Redcliffe, but Raviathan simply shrugged. Geography held no interest for him, and he expected Duncan knew where he was going, and that was fine by him. By late evening they came to the little inn Duncan had planned on. Duncan found the elf's willing ears refreshing. It wasn't that he didn't have the other Wardens’ attention—many found the history of the Grey fascinating—but the elf had seemed to drink in his words and asked intelligent questions. He had a way of drawing more of Duncan's opinions out along with the history.

As before, the inn was crowded. Small numbers of militia were often travelling between Ostagar, the capital, and various holdings carrying messages, reviewing the supply lines or the like, and many merchants were moving north for the winter. Just as before, there was one room left with one large bed.

Resigned to the fact that he might have to argue with the elf, Duncan tried for reason first. "Rav, I know this is a sensitive subject, but I can't stand another night like the one before." The elf frowned looking down. "I think you know what I mean."

He rubbed his arms, clearly uncomfortable with the subject. "Cold."

Duncan wondered again at the elf's reluctance. "It's just sleep."

"I know," he said hunching into himself.

Startled, Duncan realized the elf really would prefer to freeze again rather than share a large bed even when there would be no sex involved. Had there been some abuse he was unfamiliar with? He couldn't imagine Adaia either doing something like that or allowing it. "Would it help if we put the pillows in the middle? Like a wall."

"It isn't that. I know you're not… It's…" Raviathan's brow knit as if in pain. Finally, he looked at Duncan for a long moment. Elven eyes caught the candlelight and reflected it back like sun shining through a stain glass window.

So strange, elven eyes. "Rav? I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, but I don't understand what the problem is."

Raviathan looked at the bed for a long moment, which made Duncan wonder all the more. Just what concession was he asking for that the elf had to struggle this much? Finally, Raviathan exhaled. "Alright."

The two left for dinner. This crowd was much more sedate, most tired from long travel. The booth Duncan selected allowed for private conversation as they waited for their meal. "Rav, can you explain what happened at the estate?"

Raviathan fidgeted. "What do you want to know?"

"Mainly your tactics. What you accomplished was rather extraordinary."

That seemed to ease the elf. "I poisoned the guards."

"But you weren't carrying poison."

"Rat poison at the estate. Thins the blood. That kind of poison is useful because the rats crawl off to die, so servants don't have to clean them up or miss one and have it rot and contaminate the food. I mixed it with their lunch and in a case of beer. After the poison, the guards were easy to cut down. If there are any who survived the initial attack, they'll be d-dead in a week. Internal bleeding. Then I started a fire, and that distracted everyone enough that Soris and I could sneak the women out." Raviathan kept his head down throughout the story.

"Are you worried about those guards?"

"Some. I didn’t see any survivors, but they could have just run. I keep thinking I should send a messenger… or something. So they can be treated. But they'll just hurt us again. Be even angrier after what happened. I don't know what to do, but I know they're dying. Slow. I wonder what they're going through. I don't know if there are survivors, but if there are… I'm torturing them." Raviathan buried his hand in his hair. "I… Duncan, there are things I did, and I don't understand them. Sick things," he whispered.

"Like what?" Raviathan just shook his head at Duncan's question. Duncan rested a hand on the elf's shoulder. "The first person I killed was a Grey Warden."

Raviathan's head shot up. He wasn't crying, but liquid made the natural shine of his eyes dance.

"Do you want to hear about it?" Raviathan nodded. Duncan squeezed his shoulder before starting. "Ser Guy. I was a thief, had been living on my own for years. At the time, I was mad at him for fighting back. Why couldn't he just let me steal the ring? Why did he have to show up to begin with? Why did he have to make it more difficult? I was angry and confused. He was a human who had done me no wrong, and I killed him. By all accounts, he was an honorable man. I could see that. What was worse, he wasn't mad at me. When I killed him, he accepted it. I was conscripted into the Wardens as a punishment. I struggled against the Grey Wardens, against my Commander."

Giving his shoulder a final squeeze, Duncan dropped his hand when a barmaid approached. The woman brought their food, venison stew along with more standard fare. She placed a mug of ale and one of water on the table and left. Duncan ate as if he had had no food in days. Raviathan took a share of the meal but did not eat. "So, what happened?"

"I was a Grey Warden. Eventually, I came to terms with that. To be a Grey Warden is a purpose like no other. There isn't anyone else in Thedas who can do what we do. Rav, what you will become is a guardian. Dwarves, elves, humans, none of that matters anymore when it comes to what we are. They all need protection. They will all need you. I know your instincts are at war right now, but they are exactly what the Grey need. We stop at nothing to defeat the darkspawn. Sometimes that means fighting our fellow man in order to protect them. We must have the courage to do what is necessary, even if it isn't noble or pretty. Guardians aren't always knights in shining golden armor. We do whatever it takes to stop a Blight. If we hadn't in the past, human, elf, dwarf, none of us would exist today. The world would be covered by darkspawn, corrupted beyond recognition."

Raviathan tore the crust off his bread and nibbled it. "I think I understand."

"Give yourself time. What happened was horrible, and the feelings you have are natural. Anyone would struggle in your situation. Myself included."

"You said Grey Wardens only take the best. Do you still want me?"

"Why in the Maker's name wouldn't I?"

"I used poison. The fire. It's not like I'm that great a fighter. I… well, I cheated."

Duncan scoffed. "You weren't stupid, and that's supposed to make you less worthy? Brute strength isn't everything. Grey Wardens are tacticians. Tricksters when necessary. That showed a lot of cunning, Rav. Even in a rage, you think. I find that more impressive than a barbarian with a hammer."

"Really?"

"War machines are powerful, but without a mind to build, direct, or use them, they are only a collection of wood and metal."

Raviathan turned back to his stew, his appetite returned though he ate slowly. "You're a good man, Duncan."

Duncan grinned. "No longer the scoundrel you saw in the alienage?"

A slight smile eased Raviathan's mouth. "No. Last night… If you had any other purpose… but you didn't. I guess I can trust that enough."

"If you ever feel the need to talk."

"Thank you, Duncan."

It wasn't until they were in bed, the elf already curled as far to his side as he could get, that Duncan realized how much extra about the Wardens he had unintentionally told. He smiled as he let sleep overtake him. He'd have to watch himself, but the elf was turning out to be more than just a skilled fighter. He hoped the boy would survive.


	19. Strange Bedfellows – Meeting of Minds

Dawn broke with dark clouds brooding to the south. A clammy oppressiveness indicated rain, or more likely sleet, was on it's way. Unperturbed by the weather, Raviathan peppered Duncan with questions with even more interest than he had the day before. What did it take to be an official Grey Warden? What was the Joining Ritual? Were they under the King's command? If not, did they still have to obey the same laws? How was the Order organized? Where were the other Grey Wardens located? How old was the Order? How many Grey Wardens were there? And so on.

Conversation helped Raviathan keep his mind off his aches from the long miles of walking. He had maintained his physique with the exercises his mother had taught him, but there wasn't much walking in the tiny alienage. Different muscles were being put to the test, and between that and the cold, Raviathan felt decidedly stiff.

Duncan tried to appease the lad's curiosity by detailing what he knew about the First through Fourth Blights. By noon, Duncan had run out of answers he could give about the Wardens and their history. "Rav, I wish I could tell you everything now, but some of this is secret to the Order. I promise after you're an official Grey Warden, I and the others will answer any questions you have to the best of our ability and without reservation, but you must be patient for now."

The elf crossed his arms looking away. "Am I bothering you?"

"No, no. I'm glad you're curious, but there are reasons why I can't answer now. There are secrets known only to the Wardens. You'll understand in time." Duncan heard a soft sigh as the elf acquiesced. "If you don't mind my asking." Raviathan looked up at him with mild curiosity. "I have a few questions."

The elf gave a rueful grin. "Okay. I can't imagine I have anything interesting to say though."

"Let's start with this. You carry your clothes and the like in the sack, so what's in the case?" He suspected he knew from the apothecary's interest the day before, but he wanted to hear it from the elf.

Raviathan looked down at the case, surprised by the question. "It's my healer's kit."

"Then you know the healing arts?" Duncan asked in delight. An herbalist or someone skilled in poisons he had expected, but a healer would be immensely valuable.

"My aunt taught me. I know a bit about herbs, how to make poultices, compresses, tinctures, potions, splints, casts, set bones, how to clean and stitch a wound and keep it from infection and the like. I can deliver babies too, but I doubt you'll need much of that. Solyn made sure I knew everything she did."

Duncan grinned. "So you're a physician as well as an herbalist?"

"Sure," the elf said nonchalantly, but he could tell by Duncan's grin that his skills would be put to use. There was satisfaction in that. He was coming to terms with his new fate, and it was gratifying that his skills which always had to be hidden were finally going to be useful without the fear he had before. It was an odd freedom that this conscription had brought.

"Excellent. Next question then," he said watching the elf in his periphery. "You didn't seem very upset about that man who propositioned you that first night." Raviathan shrugged. "Did it bother you?"

The elf's eyes turned to him mischievously though he kept his face forward. His baritone went up an octave as he dramatically lamented, "Oh Maker. Why oh why did you curse me with this stunning visage of loveliness? Why must I forever be tormented with the attentions of others? Have you no heart, Maker? This beauty is like a curse." Duncan chuckled, and Raviathan's white teeth flashed. He looked directly at Duncan, becoming serious. "I was propositioned often enough at the docks, but so were the other elves. The humans keep calling me beautiful. I hear them talk about it."

"Well, you are beautiful," Duncan said as a simple statement of fact. Elves were often considered the most attractive of the four known humanoid races but also the weakest. The Dalish were the only elves who were respected as hunters. While Raviathan may have been joking, he really was stunningly beautiful even for one of his race. Where Adaia was delicate, Raviathan was more angular and sculpted, but they shared the same sensuous mouth, large eyes, and exotic coloration. "Don't get me wrong, Rav," he amended, seeing a shadow pass over the elf's face. "I can enjoy looking at a well made dress on a woman, but that doesn't mean I want to wear it." At the elf's troubled look Duncan asked, "Does it bother you that I said that?"

"No. Not really. I know you're not interested in me that way. I'm sorry I acted like that the other night. It was just easier to be angry than grieve."

"I thought as much," said Duncan sympathetically. "Apology accepted."

Raviathan nodded. He figured Duncan already knew he was sorry, but he felt better for having said it. "I don't mean to sound arrogant or vain. I know I'm good looking for an elf, but that seems exaggerated when I'm among humans."

Duncan was surprised the elf was willing to discuss racial politics and was glad to see he was speaking about it with an open mind. "Let me first say I'm sorry elves have been treated so badly. What happened at your wedding was another in a long line of injustices that started centuries before the First Blight. I don't mean to trivialize that at all, but I would like to speak openly." Raviathan gave him a long look that was curious if somewhat guarded, then nodded for him to continue. "Your race is considered more attractive in general. Even elven men are pretty by our standards, and you're not only beautiful, but exotic as well. And human men who would normally not be attracted to another man aren't as particular when it comes to elven men. But you already know that."

Raviathan crossed his arms. "Sometimes I get more attention than I like, especially from men like that. But they don't do that because I'm better looking or not. Looks have little to do with it. A woman who carries herself with confidence is more attractive even if she isn't necessarily more beautiful. It has more to do with what I am than what I look like. I hate that being an elf means that people assume I'm automatically up for sale. A human woman walks into a bar and the men buy her drinks. They just try to buy me."

"Have you had much of that? I didn't think you'd been outside of the alienage that much."

"On occasion," he admitted. "I made sure to walk home with a group when I was working at the docks."

"Hmm," Duncan murmured. "Please take this in the light it is intended." Raviathan looked back at him with interest. "You've had a few bad days, and we have been in rough areas, but if you carry yourself a little differently, you might get propositioned less."

The elf cocked his head at him. "Go on."

"I bet you didn't get hassled on the way back from the Arl's estate."

"No," Raviathan said still watching him closely. Duncan hunched his shoulders and looked up, wide eyed and frightened. Raviathan narrowed his eyes, studying the man, then lifted up his chest which naturally squared his shoulders. His face became stony and impassive.

"Maybe not that hard all the time," Duncan said reviewing the boy, "but something like that. It's enough of a reminder that even roses have thorns."

Raviathan laughed at the light teasing. "My mother said that stupid or inexperienced wouldn't notice, but a guard who had a better eye could tell I've had training. And what trouble that could lead to. I couldn't walk around armed, so it was better to go unnoticed. She taught me a few techniques to blend into the background or at look less like a threat to those who would notice."

"She was right. But you're a Grey Warden now. It's time to stop hiding." Duncan watched as Raviathan thought over his new role. He could see the elf start to take his words to heart, see an easy confidence come into his relaxed gait.

"Thank you, Duncan. It's a habit, but you're right. I think my mom wanted to teach me more, but what she did teach me was for safety."

"Just make sure that your thorns don't get so prickly no one can see the rose."

Raviathan chuckled. "To be honest being good looking has made my life easier."

"Oh?"

Raviathan's grin flashed again. "Made getting girls ridiculously easy," which made Duncan smile in spite of himself. Raviathan became more introspective as he added, "When I was young I noticed my punishments were lighter from everyone except my mom. I've gotten better treatment than I should have too. Not always, but there were times I noticed people soften up to me. Sometimes all I had to do was smile. Other times, even when I was mean or did something wrong, they'd let me get away with more than I should have. I think my mother was tougher to make up for it." He shrugged. "I always liked it that I took after her. Made me feel closer to her and like I came from something special."

"You did. No one in Thedas could hold a candle to her." Adaia had a refined perfection to her exotic features that could have made her a legend in Val Royeaux had she the inclination. Those looks sometimes had a price, but more often people were intimidated by it or bowed more easily to her wishes. The darkspawn might not care if they were killed by perfection incarnate, but her charm would have helped the Wardens navigate the politics they often had to deal with despite their neutral status. Duncan wondered briefly how Cailan would react to Raviathan, if the elf could charm the king, but he wasn't convinced Raviathan had enough of his mother's training to become an effective agent for the Wardens.

A bittersweet smile touched Raviathan's lips as he remembered his mother. "How did you know her?"

"We had a few misadventures."

The elven eyes lit up awaiting the tale. "You have to tell me. No, seriously," he added as Duncan looked like he was about to tease him. "You have to."

Duncan chuckled. "Alright. It was when she first moved to Denerim, before she married your father. She was still more on the wild side and often skulked around the city at night unbeknownst to Valendrian. She didn't steal, but she had a lot of curiosity. Worse than a cat. As it was, she started turning her hand at spy work."

The shine in Raviathan's eyes glowed vibrantly. Duncan couldn't help but feel charmed as he had with Adaia. Raviathan had just admitted he had that effect, practically warned him, but it didn't lessen the little sense of delight that warmed Duncan's chest. What was it about the two elves that so easily charmed others? Perhaps Adaia had been the only one immune to the boy, or perhaps she hadn't. Whatever the case, she had loved her son enough to make sure he wasn't spoiled or defenseless. Raviathan, for his part, was certainly still in the thrall of her memory.

"Nothing too bad," Duncan continued. "Mainly following cheating spouses for the nobility or finding out a bit of intrigue, but she was becoming rather infamous for occasionally taunting the guards. One night I was returning to our Denerim base when I saw her evading the two patrols of guards. To my surprise, she decided to try and hide out in the Grey Warden base. Now I couldn't have that. When I cornered and confronted her, I offered her a job in exchange for not calling the guard.

"We had some of our equipment pilfered a few days before, and I had suspected it was a bored nobleman, but I had no proof. Three nights later the equipment returned along with the lord's signet ring. We couldn't openly confront the man, but the two waged a covert war, and I put Adaia in charge of our defenses. A sword of ours would be taken, then it would be returned along with a painting. The painting would disappear a week after that along with a few books, which would turn up four days later with an attractive vase, and so on. It brought a delightful sense of randomness to the base, and a few Wardens adopted the Nightcat as a sort of mascot. After a few months of this, the nobleman asked me to conscript him so he could get out of an arranged marriage, which I obliged. I made Adaia the same offer, but she decided to settle down with your father." Duncan looked down at Raviathan who had a wistful smile playing on his lips. "When I told her Grey Wardens couldn't have families, I think that's what made her change her mind."

Raviathan returned Duncan's gaze looking serene. "The Nightcat. That's appropriate for her."

"You have quite a bit of her in you," Duncan said.

Raviathan's serenity turned to melancholy. "Not really. I'm too cautious and… well," he sighed. "I'm not like her. Nothing seemed to get her down, or at least not for long. It's like she had this fire that couldn't be quenched. I've never known anyone who had such a playful attitude towards life."

"I don't regret letting her go." Duncan put a hand on his shoulder. The elf looked up at him in surprise. "I would have regretted losing you, though."

Raviathan looked fixedly forward as a tinge of red warmed his cheeks. It was only after they had travelled another mile that the elf spoke again. "Is there anything else you wanted to know?"

Duncan considered. "You can fight and heal. What other skills do you have?"

"Hmm. I can cook a bit. I know how to make some basic poisons."

"Is that a threat?"

The elf smiled. "No. Not anymore at least," he said bumping into Duncan playfully. "There's not a whole lot. Mom taught me what she knew as an entertainer: how to play a few instruments, sing and dance, some sleight of hand tricks with coins, juggling, and the like. I can read and speak Arcanum and darn a sock. I know a little accounting and book keeping." Accounting? That was an odd skill to have. As Duncan thought about it though, it would be useful in keeping the Warden accounts. "Anything in particular you want to know about?"

"Adaia specialized in stealth. Did she teach you that?"

"Oh yes. She taught me how to cloak in shadow or go unnoticed in the background as a servant. There was a lot of tumbling practice, and I can keep my balance on high walls. She was starting to teach me how to break into places. I haven't done much of that though. Especially after she died, I didn't want to bring more trouble to my family. I can pick locks too, but it's been years since I practiced any of that. After she died my father got rid of all our weapons and equipment except for a lock pick set I kept in the bottom of my trunk. I'm pretty rusty."

Not so rusty you couldn't take out an estate's worth of guards and nobles. A flash of lighting lit the distant south followed by a low roll of thunder that echoed off the hills. "Do you follow politics much?"

Raviathan bit his lips, a habit Duncan noticed meant it was a subject he was reluctant to talk about. "After Ness came to Denerim, my father told me why it was important to start paying attention to politics, that knowing about Howe had let her family get to safety before he ordered a purge. I know little bits and rumors, but I never paid much attention to them."

"Rumors? What kind of rumors?"

"Which nobles are having affairs. Who's lost their family fortune and is in too much debt but is hiding it. Who got drunk at a party and made a fool of themselves. Shems forget about their servants, and sometimes there was talk."

Gossiping servants were something Duncan always suspected. Duncan had made sure his Wardens were careful around the few servants they had to clean and cook. "There were never thoughts to blackmail them?"

"We don't care that much other than to watch for danger. Any elf who saw too much or got some overly ambitious ideas would disappear or get hurt. Besides, who's going to believe an elf? If we spoke up, we'd just make a target of ourselves. Most of its pretty common knowledge anyway. You knew about Vaughan, didn't you?"

"Not much. Only that he was left in Arl Kendell's absence."

Raviathan looked at him quizzically. "Not about the abused servants or disappearances?"

Duncan searched his memory. "He was popular with some of the nobles. Was considered a man's man in that he liked to hunt, race, and bed many women to those who appreciate such distinctions," Duncan said with a trace of loathing breaking through his calm. "There were some rumors that he was short tempered. I didn't know the extent of his… activities until Valendrian said more."

Raviathan considered that with some surprise. Vaughan had been notorious at the alienage and his elven workers lived at the estate when their options for employment were with him or a brothel.

"I agree with your father though, Rav. It pays to be aware of these things even if we are neutral. Howe and what happened with the Couslands are a perfect example as is our relationship with the king."

The elf smirked. "There are rumors about Cailan too. He's been discreet, but he's had a number of affairs."

That bit of news wasn't known to most, but Duncan didn't doubt it. "You've got an impressive network of spies Rav, but be very cautious with who you speak to about such things."

"Of course."

Giving the elf a sidelong look, Duncan asked, "What else?"

Though there was no smile, Duncan could tell the elf was amused by the question. "The queen knows about them. She's been keeping it hidden from her father though." The elf became serious. "Is it true married humans don't sleep in the same bed?"

That was an odd question. Duncan was still working on the significance of Cailan's bed company. Loghain was more politically practical than Maric had been, but such knowledge could make the Teyrn unpredictable. He wasn't sure how to gauge the reliability of Raviathan's rumors though. "Generally, no. Among the nobility however, there are political marriages where there is no love, and in those cases they often have different rooms. In Orlais that practice is much more common. The emperor and empress do not share the same rooms, and there are even rooms for official concubines."

Raviathan opened his mouth in shock then shook his head. "Official concubines? Humans are so strange. In any case there are some suspicions about the queen's handmaiden. They could be lovers, but I don't think so."

"Oh?" Duncan asked.

"I have a cousin who works at the palace. Just a chambermaid, but she sees things and asks me what I think about them. The Queen's handmaiden is an Orlesian elf, and that sometimes means someone… trained. I haven't ever seen either woman let alone talk to them, so this is all just presumption. What I do know is that Queen Anora and her handmaiden are close. I think if it were an affair, she would be more discreet though."

"More discreet?" Duncan asked interested to see the elf's thought pattern.

"The affection they share is casual. If it were an affair, they would hide it more. When I was selling a silverite bowl and candlestick yesterday at Tradetown, the woman accused me of stealing them. They were, but the most suspicious thing to do is be defensive. People hide what they're afraid of."

"When did you steal those?" Duncan's habit of theft as a youth had saved his life more than once, but it had also gotten him into a lot of trouble.

"When we were leaving the Arl's estate. It's not like his corpse is going to need them, and there aren't any heirs to raise a fuss."

"Be careful what you steal," Duncan began but the elf cut him off.

"I'm not an idiot. And it isn't a habit," Raviathan assured him. "I didn't dishonor my family, and I won't do that to you. I'll admit selling them was a bit risky, but they were wasting space, and I figured I could talk the woman into it."

"And if she decided to call the guard?" Duncan asked thinking the risk had been a poor one. Intent on using this as a lesson so he wouldn't have to put up with the nonsense he gave Genevieve, Duncan readied his lecture.

"I'd say I was selling them for my master. It doesn't hurt we're both dark. Makes it easy to believe we're travelling together. They were unmarked in any case. Besides, if you were willing to save me from a hanging I had confessed to, you weren't going to let a baseless accusation of theft interfere," Raviathan replied. "You think I didn't notice you watching me? Speaking of which, would you mind selling the jewelry? That is too suspicious for me."

Feeling sheepish, Duncan decided to let the subject go for now and instead asked, "Then how do you know about Cailan?"

Raviathan grinned. "She caught him in bed with a naked woman. Neither of them even noticed my cousin. I don't think that needs a lot of interpretation."

The skies that had been threatening rain all morning finally opened up. The two donned their oiled fur cloaks and walked in silence down the road. Thankfully the ground turned spongy with the rain rather than slick or squishy so their progress was not hindered much. They reached the inn only an hour into the dark of evening. For the first time the inn was not overcrowded though a few soldiers hung about the main room trading tales by the fire. "Would you order the room and food?" Duncan asked wanting to get his feet warm enough so he could feel his toes again.

Raviathan held out his hand for the silvers then went off to talk with the innkeeper. Duncan sat down gratefully by the fire, sinking into the comfortable chair. It had been a few years since he had stopped here, and they had apparently made some improvements in that time. The place gleamed with new wood and fresh whitewall.

A red headed soldier with a scrawny beard was nursing an ale by the fire and only half listening to his fellows. His eyes tracked Raviathan. He glanced at Duncan who fixed him a flat look in return that would be enough to dissuade the man from any unhealthy actions. Having staked his claim so to speak, he leaned back and rested his eyes. The soldiers babbled on about one of the ash warriors they had seen in action then of the various knight orders who were present at Ostagar. The soldiers were still green and hence worked as messengers. They were hoping to pledge an order and so discussion of relative merits and reputations ensued.

Duncan realized he had fallen into a doze when Raviathan touched his arm to wake him. "Food's ready." Part weather and part of years of abuse from combat, Duncan stood with a wince as his muscles protested. He had known he would stiffen up by the fire, but it had been too tempting a call to ignore. He watched Raviathan move with enviable grace to the dinning room. The young never understood how good they had it.

The meal was a standard fare of poultry, recently harvested fall vegetables, mashed turnips, and bread, but it was well made and in generous portions. Raviathan watched Duncan eat then shook his head. "I still can't get over how much you eat. Is that normal for humans?"

Sidestepping the issue, Duncan replied, "Wardens tend to lead an active life. I'm sure your appetite will grow soon."

When they finished, the serving maid said, "Your baths are ready. Just down the hall and on the right."

"Thanks," Raviathan said leading the way.

Two copper tubs were ready with steaming water and a fire keeping more buckets hot. Soap and fresh towels were on a bench. "How did you manage this with the money I gave you?" Duncan asked, worried that he wouldn't like the answer, though now that he saw the ready bath, he'd be willing to pay whatever it cost to keep it.

Like most elves who couldn't afford well made textiles, Raviathan dressed in layers to protect against the cold. The added clothes helped fill out his loose armor, but it reminded Duncan just how slight the boy was without the extra bulk. He had lots of well developed, lean muscle, but elven frames were willowy as a rule. "I saw the innkeeper's hands were already bloody from winter chapping and made him a salve. It worked so well he asked me to care for a boil on his son's leg. Then I made a cream to sooth his father's hemorrhoids." His voice was muffled as he pulled off his tunic and undershirt, "I didn't ask for payment, but they were happy to throw in these baths and tomorrow's breakfast."

Part of Raviathan's lithe frame was from youth with the addition of an elf's natural structure, but the young man did have hard muscles in his V shaped torso. There wasn't a pound of fat Duncan noticed as he undid the many clasps on his own armor. Raviathan left his wool socks on as long as he could, padding to one of the tubs before pulling them off. The baths might be warm, but the stone floor wasn't. Thinking the boy had the right idea, Duncan followed suit, taking off his socks just before he entered the tub. Duncan couldn't help his sigh of relief, and Raviathan smiled, glad he had done right by the old warrior.

Raviathan kept his eyes closed as he soaked, enjoying the luxury of spreading out in the welcome heat. The tub was so large he could easily dunk his whole body in. As the warmth finished unfreezing his aching legs, Raviathan decided he wasn't about to put his frozen, soggy clothes back on that night. He didn't care if any of the inn's patrons laughed at him. A towel would have to do until he got to their room to change into his sleeping things.

"Duncan? Do you mind if I ask a personal question?"

"You can ask, though I might not answer."

Raviathan dipped under to wet his hair then started soaping up. Duncan wasn't ready to do anything more than soak for the time being. "Do you often have nightmares?"

The old warrior took his time answering. "Lately, yes. Did I bother you?"

"No," Raviathan said. "I was just wondering." He smiled with a brightness that was a bit forced, "I guess I was so warm last night I slept like the dead." Duncan wondered if he had said anything in his sleep. "Um," the elf hedged. Duncan's eyes silted open to see the elf watching him covertly. "Do all humans have hair? On their bodies?"

Duncan chuckled at the cautious question. "Not everyone, but it's common enough. Men more than women."

"So," Raviathan asked studying him a little more openly, "some human women have hair on their chests too?"

At that Duncan laughed. "Not on their chests. Just like women don't grow beards. Leg hair is found on both, but women tend to have finer hair. Some men, like women, have very little hair. Some men have a great deal all over or on certain parts. It just depends."

Having satisfied his delicate questions for the night, Raviathan finished his wash and dried off. He put on his socks, boots, and a towel wrapped around his waist. "Do you want any more hot water before I go?"

Young men recover too quickly, Duncan thought. He wasn't even ready for a wash yet, still enjoying the heat of the soak. "If it isn't any trouble." It didn't occur to him until Raviathan was pouring more hot water in that he might have asked just to get a better look at a nude human, but the elf had his back turned and was giving him as much privacy as possible. Raviathan returned the kettle to the fire and gathered his things. Duncan asked, "You're not getting dressed?"

"Clothes are wet and cold. I'll dress in the dry stuff I have upstairs."

Duncan leaned further in the tub as the renewed hot water eased him. He would have to be careful he didn't fall asleep again. "Make sure you go unnoticed. One of the army men was looking at you."

"Oh," said the elf startled. "Thanks for the notice. I've left a second key here. Room's on the second floor, third door on the left."

The door clicked close, and Duncan swished the water about to even out the heat at his feet. He thought about Raviathan. So far he had seen a bright and resourceful lad, clever with people even though he didn't know humans well. That was as far as he got before the heat had him dozing.

The Archdemon raised its head to a sky of black rolling clouds. Horrible and powerful, beautiful and terrifying. Darkspawn had no souls, but the Archdemon did. A god made flesh, ancient, and full of corruption. It screamed and pain lanced through Duncan's head. He woke with a start. It wasn't just the dreams that disturbed him. Afterwards he could feel the taint crawling under his skin like spiders. It made him want to pick his skin off, but thankfully the feeling didn't last long after he woke. In a few minutes, as his heart slowed down to its normal pace, the itching under his skin dissipated.

The water was still warm but felt tepid compared to the earlier heat. Duncan washed up quickly. A towel was near the bathtub as were a fresh pair of dry socks. His armor and wet clothing were gone, and there were dry clothes waiting for him by the fire. His nightshirt was there as well, getting toasty. It could have been a servant, but most likely it was Raviathan who had done this while he slept. Duncan was grateful as his long, warm nightshirt heated his skin and but annoyed with himself that he hadn't woken when the elf moved about. Allowing himself to fall so deeply asleep that he had been completely unaware of the elf had been careless. Even in these pleasant surroundings, there was always a chance for something unexpected to happen. As Duncan left, he noticed Raviathan had the sense to make sure the bathing room door was locked.

Sitting in the lone chair in their room, Raviathan looked up from his sewing to smile at Duncan when he entered. The room was lit by only a single candle, but that was enough for elven vision to work by. Both their sets of armor hung on stands, and their clothes laid out to dry overnight. Warming stones had been placed on the bed as well. How much of this was the servants and how much the elf? "If you had taken much longer, I was going to wake you."

"They didn't have a room with two beds?" Duncan asked.

"This was cheaper. Speaking of which," Raviathan pointed with his chin to Duncan's change on the little table by the bed.

"Make sure you don't forget that tomorrow," Duncan replied removing his leggings and socks. He looked over to see the elf watching pensively. "Is something wrong?"

The elf put down his sewing and watched him with large, unreadable eyes. "You've been very kind to me, Duncan."

It made Duncan sad to see the elf watch him like that now that he understood the expression. It was like watching a sweet tempered dog who had been beaten his whole life and couldn't quite bring itself to believe anyone would be nice to it. "Let's get some sleep."

After removing the stones, Duncan tossed the two pillows in the center of the bed, but Raviathan said, "Don't worry about it."

"No?"

Raviathan stopped packing away his half tailored clothes and turned his head to look over his shoulder, casting an overwrought seductive glance Duncan's way. The elf's voice was deep and low with the intimacy of a lover. "I suppose since you've been able resist my charms thus far, we can spare the pillows."

Duncan laughed as he slid under the warmed blankets. Raviathan finished packing then curled up on his side of the bed, back towards Duncan.

Normally Duncan would have sent him south so he could become more familiar with the other two recruits, but Raviathan didn't have an escort, and there was no immediate need. In any case, Duncan enjoyed getting to know the boy. As the days passed, Duncan found he was growing fond of the lad, and there was no mistake that he was helping the young elf adjust to the world outside the alienage. He was distantly aware of Raviathan shifting in his sleep as his own tiredness overtook him.


	20. Strange Bedfellows – Adventures with Shems

Usually Duncan awoke with a start, covered in sweat from his nightmares. Terrifying shadows hunted him down in the endless dark tunnels of the Deep Roads, but the persistent, maddening song of the Archdemon had been muted so as to be unnoticeable during the last two nights. He was surprised to find he woke feeling more rested than he had in a month since the dreams had started. He took a moment to savor the feeling. Instead of taint induced nightmares, he had been back at the Warden compound in Denerim, the inviting aromas of cooking making him long for supper. The Calling was still in the near future, but respite was welcome. He was equally surprised to see the sleeping elf curled up next to him with a warm hand on his bicep. Raviathan was being downright cuddly.

Rain fell hard against the window. Duncan tried to ease out of bed so as not to disturb the elf, but Raviathan's head raised slightly with a murmured "mmm?" that was entirely too cute. Duncan smiled down at the elf, and, on impulse, brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over Raviathan's features. Raviathan stretched under the blankets then blinked the sleep from his eyes.

"You can sleep in more if you'd like," Duncan said, his voice hoarse from sleep. 

"Mmmh. Rain's too heavy for travel I take it," Raviathan said, looking out the window.

"For now it is. If it clears up before noon, we'll go. Otherwise we'll need to stay another night."

The elf sat up and stretched again, his muscles flexing this way and that, and for a moment, Duncan envied the easy health of the young. They dressed for breakfast, and following Duncan's example, Raviathan left his armor behind. It made sense, Raviathan thought. If they might not be leaving, why wear the heavy stuff. This was the first day he hadn't worn armor since he left Denerim, and as ill fitting as it was, he was surprised by how quickly he had gotten used to it.

Breakfast consisted of potato cakes and onions with some bacon for flavor, yogurt, butter, fruit preserves, and dark wheat bread. Raviathan smiled and shook his head at Duncan's appetite. "I don't know where you put it all. I've been watching. Not all shems eat that much. Not even the guards."

Duncan merely shrugged the comments away. The elf's eyes sharpened on him. "Can't pull that one on me, Duncan."

"What am I pulling?"

"I'm getting better at reading shems. I can tell you're hiding something."

Duncan raised his eyebrows at the comment then took another bite of bread. Raviathan grinned, mischief written in his shining eyes, and Duncan couldn't help a small smile in return before sobering. "I am not allowed to speak of its cause. Otherwise, I would tell you."

Raviathan regarded him, his head cocked as he thought. "Something that's particular to you, or something that's common among Grey Wardens?"

Duncan squeezed Raviathan's forearm, and gave the elf his full attention. "If I could tell you, I would. You'll have to be content knowing that I wish I could answer all of your questions."

A bit startled by Duncan's intensity, Raviathan nodded before they both turned back to their meal. "So," Raviathan started, "what are our plans today? Since we can't travel."

"One, we'll see if we can get a tailor for your clothes. Maybe some other items. If there is a barn or large enough room available here or further in town, I thought we might train."

Raviathan perked up.

"You like the idea then?"

"It's been ages since I've trained," Raviathan said. "If I'm going to uphold the Order, I'd better sharpen up."

"You might regret that tonight."

Raviathan scoffed. "You think I haven't earned a bruise or twenty before?"

The ate in comfortable silence as Duncan pondered that statement. Why hadn't he thought of Raviathan's lack of injuries before? The elf didn't have the slightest mar on his skin, not from training and not from his battle at the estate. Surely he had been injured. "Do you know how to make healing potions as well?"

"Sure. Cinimar, elfroot, and a base oil. It's not hard. Problem is cinimar is expensive and needs to be processed. I've only been able to get roots, but the oil is most effective."

"How expensive is the oil?"

"Usually around thirty silver or so for a vial. Half sovereign or more for higher quality stuff."

Duncan almost shook his head but caught himself. Though the costs for ingredients would add up, the price still seemed meager compared to the necessity of a whole body. Most households would have a vial of the fast acting healing potion for emergency injuries, but elves would likely not even have that. In the alienage, elves had beautiful children and crippled adults.

When the serving girl passed by, Duncan signaled for her. "Is there an apothecary in town?"

"East, at the edge of town. Old Beth. Backyard overgrown with weeds. Can't miss it."

Duncan pulled out a purse that had five sovereigns worth of coins. "Here. Buy what you need."

The elf took the purse, his eyes widening when he saw gold mixed with silver. "I… Duncan."

"You will be the Wardens' healer. You should be equipped, especially considering that we are going to war." With solemn ceremony, the elf tucked away the pouch of coins. "Take your clothes to be altered by a tailor first. When I'm finished with breakfast, I'll see if there's a barn for us to spar."

"Do you want to meet back here?"

"I'll find you."

Raviathan opened his mouth to protest before shutting it. Despite his travel through the countryside of the Bannorn, Raviathan still measured everything by the sprawling maze that was Denerim. Even Tradetown, which was less than half the size of the Denerim Market, was twice as large as this village. Shaking his head at the strangeness of his new life, he left to get his new clothes to take to a tailor, dressed in armor and weapons, got his oiled cloak, then headed out after receiving directions from the serving girl.

Though the town itself consisted of little more than a collection of houses, a humble chantry, and an inn, Raviathan was fascinated. Everything from the slumping stone and mud architecture to the spaces between buildings he would never see in Denerim was vastly different than anything he had known before. What must it be like to grow up here? Have these homes and muddy streets as your only reference? What would these people think of Denerim's noise and crowds let alone the foreign goods found in the Market?

While the town didn't have a tailor, there was a woman who took in washing and could make alterations. She measured him without fuss after he showed her his coin, though his ears and eyes did get a close examination. Her children stood around the main room staring at him as if he were some exotic animal. They didn't even try to hide their unwavering gaze. "Not many elves around here, are there?"

"Naw, ser. Servants following their lord sometimes. Or the odd Dalish to trade, but that be rare."

One child whispered to his sister, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, "He's so small."

Raviathan raised an eyebrow at the comment. The boy, about ten or so though Raviathan was a poor judge of human children's ages, was still a few inches shorter than he was. Snot ran unchecked from the boy's nose. Most of her children had red noses they either left to leak or rubbed at occasionally. All of them sniffled.

"Look at his eyes," his sister whispered back.

In the alienage, the children would have been given chores to do if they couldn't be polite, especially to a stranger in their home. Raviathan couldn't tell if the difference was from them being human, if humans had a different standard of behavior for elves than they would for their fellows, or if it was this particular family who lacked manners.

"First time they've seen a knife ear up close," the mother said.

Knife ear. Raviathan stiffened at the comment. Heat burned his face, and he wanted out of the house immediately, enough that his skin was itching to get back out into the rain.

"Pretty folk, aren't they," the mother said casting a smile back at her children. Raviathan's brows knit. She hadn't the slightest embarrassment or hesitation at the slur. Bloody shems, he thought.

A child's cry sounded from further within the home. "Ack. That sounds like Ellison. Billy, go see to her, would you, dear?"

The eldest boy left, his gaze focused singularly on Raviathan until the child disappeared into the hall. The other four children continued to stare, the youngest with her thumb in her open mouth, a trail of drool sliding down her hand. Except for the youngest towheaded girl, they all had their mother's unruly, brown curls, square jaw, and thin lips.

"Don't know what's wrong with that child. Just won't stop fussing, especially when I put her down. Not got a wink of sleep last night."

Tension remained in Raviathan's shoulders, but the child's cries called to him, pushing through his resentment. The mother may be another worthless shem, but he couldn't allow her child to suffer for that. Raviathan looked at her children with a critical eye. "Has your family had many colds lately?"

The woman snorted. "Think one is done, then another comes along. All seven of them were laid up."

Seven? No, he must have misheard. He glanced back at the woman who was measuring his legs. She still looked to be in the midst of her third decade. "Seven… children?"

"Seven and this one on the way," she said patting her stomach. She turned her grin up at him. Three of her teeth were missing. "That ain't including my husband neither when he's sick," she said with a wink.

Maker! "Is…" Raviathan cleared his throat when his voice cracked, "is that normal for humans?"

She shrugged. "I was fourth of twenty. Three died as babes, then lost a few brothers and a sister to bandits that came through."

"I… I'm sorry."

"Aye. Jaken was my favorite brother. Took care of me when I was young, he did. Me mother used to say he was too sweet for this world. Maker had a better place ready for him. Ah, but that was years ago. Don't trouble yourself about it."

Twenty children and so many dead. Raviathan couldn't comprehend the numbers. "Your baby, um, had a cold recently?"

"Yeah."

"Has a fever?"

She looked back up at him, curious. "Yes."

"Vomiting or diarrhea?"

Now she sat back on her heels to stare at him. "Yes to both."

"Any ear pulling? Or liquid coming out of her ears?"

"No."

"May I take a look at her?"

She stared at him. "You know about this sort of thing?"

Raviathan indicated his case. "I'm a healer."

"What sort of healer?"

"I took care of all the elves in my alienage. I was going to start a practice, take in humans too, but then the war in the south started, and I was conscripted."

She didn't speak for a long minute, her guard up as it hadn't been before. "How old are you?"

"I've been practicing medicine for six years, on my own for two. Before that, I mixed potions and poultices often." He returned her gaze. "I'm young, but I'm good at what I do."

She hesitated for a moment longer before standing. She beckoned him with a small wave down the hall. Billy was cradling a large baby. Another baby a few months old lay placidly in a crib ignoring the fuss of siblings. Billy looked startled to see him.

"How old is she?"

"Almost two," the mother replied.

Had the baby been an elf, Raviathan would have guessed three from the size, but she was proportional for a two year old, if huge by elven standards. He felt her forehead, looked into her eyes and mouth, sniffed at her ears. He turned to the mother. "Ear infection."

"Is that bad?"

Raviathan shook his head. "Pretty common. Most children get one or two, sometimes more. How long has she been ill?"

"About a week?" she said turning to Billy to confirm.

"Four days," he said.

"Hmm. That's getting to be a bit long. Here," Raviathan said, holding out his arms. "I need to get a sense of her weight."

Billy hesitated, but at his mother's nod, handed his sister over. Her fussing and half cries stopped almost immediately. Grey blue eyes stared up at Raviathan just as her siblings had. Raviathan was shocked by how heavy and solid she felt in his arms.

The mother put a hand on Billy's shoulder as if to steady herself. "She never takes to strangers."

Raviathan smiled at her. "While your children have runny noses, it's best they don't care for her. Because babies have smaller ears, infections are easier to get. I'll make an elfroot potion for her, but you must give it all. I'm going to make it specially for her, so don't give any to your other children. Make sure she gets a small spoonful in the morning, noon, and at night. Now, ear infections will come back if you're not careful. They're like weeds. Even when you pull one out, if you don't get the roots, it'll grow back. We want to give her enough of the potion that we get the root of the infection as well, understand?"

The mother nodded as though still in shock. Raviathan handed her child back and left to make the potion. The difference now was that he had six children and their mother openly staring at him in silence. The only sounds in the room were the rain and grinding elfroot. Why did shems have to stare so? "So, how long for the clothes?"

"Eh? Oh, right," the mother said, turning back to the little pile he had folded on the floor. "A day? Two perhaps?"

"If it stops raining before noon, we'll need to leave."

"Not likely that. We're due for rain. Probably a few days if not a week."

A week? Duncan would likely have them marching in the rain if it came to that. Finished with the potion, he made the mother and Billy repeat his instructions twice before leaving.

Rain pounded outside creating huge puddles in the muddy road and in the depressions in yards. Occasional gusts pushed the already cold rain in a slant that soaked Raviathan's pants to the knees. Picking his way through slick mud and avoiding puddles, Raviathan tightened his cloak about him, his hood lowered and head down to avoid the rain.

The overgrown 'weeds' in the apothecary's yard were actually one of the healthiest assortment of deathroot, elfroot, and other medicinal herbs that Raviathan had ever seen. Strange that the villagers weren't healthier with this treasure available to them.

The woman who greeted him was explanation enough. She had four score years to her age if she had a day. Thick, grey hair knotted in long kinks around her head like moss hanging from a dead tree. Her hands were gnarled into claws, her joints bulging. Bent in spine and shoulders, she bore twin cataracts that peered at him without seeing more than a shadow of shape. "Eh. What's this?"

"I was told this was an apothecary."

"Aye, aye," she said and retreated into her hut. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling giving spiders a fertile place to spin their webs. "You needing something then? Weather like this breeds illness."

Even if she could still mix, Raviathan wouldn't trust her goods. "I'm a healer. I was wondering if we could trade."

One grey filmed eye boggled at him. She hobbled over in an odd sidestepping gait and poked him. "You setting up shop here?"

"No, just passing through. Headed to the King's army in the south."

Her hostility drained away. "Aye then. That'd be alright."

Selfish shem. Raviathan looked around her hut again. Dried bats hung from a beam along with the oddest assortment of straw dolls and bound twigs. The dolls didn't look like any toy he would give a child. A distillery slumped against a wall, but judging from the dust that covered the glass jars, Raviathan suspected that the crone hadn't used it in years. Everything would need to be boiled before the distillery could be useful again. "Do you have any cinimar root or oil?"

The crone cackled. "Haven't seen the like of that in years. And before you get started, I don't have baccas gum or elbas oil neither."

"How do you care for these people without them?" Of all herbalist ingredients, those three were what brought out the power of a plant. Skullcap might be a mild pain reliever, but when combined with elbas oil, the herb was almost as good as magic at calming a patient and taking away pain.

"Heh. Just from that can tell you ain't from here. They wouldn't know wine from vinegar. Snake piss works as well enough for them, doesn't it. Half a healing is in the mind."

For a moment, Raviathan couldn't even contemplate what she meant. Snake piss? In the mind? For a second he wondered if she referred to some Fade ritual unregulated by the Chantry. When it dawned on him what she truly meant, he felt sickened. While a patient's emotional state did effect their health and recovery, hers was a deep betrayal of trust. He regarded the remnants and dolls with disgust now that he was better able to guess at their purpose. "What are the dolls and dried bats for?"

"Child has the fits, I sells those to keep the demon from plaguing them." Raviathan scoffed. The crone's head swiveled at the sound. "Now don't you go a judging. The mix… well my hands shake too much, the oils are too expensive, and my eyes aren't what they used to be. Plenty of parents are happy enough thinking the demon can't get through."

Raviathan eyed her with growing contempt. "Why haven't you had an apprentice?"

"Apprentice?" She snorted. "In a few years time, lose any livelihood I had, wouldn't I. You're a cocky sort, ain't ya. Just you wait until your eyes glaze over and you hurt all the time. See how you feel about starving through a winter."

"You've got a fortune in that garden of yours, uncared for as it is. These people deserve better."

The crone thumped her foot, the sound loud in the small hut. "See here. What did you come for, eh? You're travelling through, plenty of places to stop. What you want with me then?"

Raviathan glared at her. "An apprentice would have cared for you, your garden, and treated the people here right. All for what's in that head of yours. Decades of experience going to waste and about to die out. I, however, need nothing from you."

The crones jaw worked in agitation. Doubtless there wasn't one person in the village willing to risk her wrath after years of poisoning them with superstition. Raviathan started to leave. The sound of rain became loud when he opened the door. The crone called, "Wait. Just wait a moment. I still might have something you be wanting."

Raviathan raised an eyebrow. She couldn't see it, so he asked, "And what might that be?"

She waved her hand at the ceiling. "Got plenty of herbs."

Herbs were like soldiers; both faded away with age. "What you have here isn't fit enough to cook with."

"The garden," she said with a note of desperation. "Said it yourself that it's good. Let you poke around it for a sovereign."

"A sovereign? Elfroot grows free enough on the side of the road."

"I got more than that. Got eddercap, spindleweed, and white clover. Dark embrium?"

The last made Raviathan hesitate. Spindleweed was rare this far south, but embrium grew poorly in Ferelden's cold climate. If she had embrium, particularly dark embrium, that was still alive, the plant was a miracle. "I want to see what you have before we start negotiating."

"Steal from an old woman, you will. No and no."

Raviathan snorted. "Won't even let me see what I'm buying, and you call me a thief?"

"Heh. As if I haven't known a young man or three before. All sweet talk and wheeling until time comes to pay for what you've done."

Raviathan opened his mouth to counter but stopped himself. The woman twisted her head, wondering at his hesitation. Raviathan pursed his lips and left. He wasn't going to deal with this woman, not this person who knowingly cheated and harmed the people she was meant to protect.

"Here, now. Where are you going?"

"If I change my mind, I'll be back."

"Eh? Maker's breath. Alright, alright, you can take a look, but that's all."

Wind swept Raviathan's cloak to the side before he could tuck it back around him. The crone cursed him from her doorway, not that he minded her vitriol. He'd heard far worse before. Wondering if Duncan had found a place for them to practice, Raviathan quickened his pace back to the inn. Raviathan hoped he wouldn’t be a disappointment considering he hadn't trained in years. Would Duncan change his mind about conscripting him?

Guard dogs chained to their houses snarled as he passed. Their sharp barks unnerved him, making him think back to the dog that had wanted to bite his face off. The memory of the dog's high pitched squeal of pain and crunch of his bones still bothered him. Animals were helpless, tools of their owners. They weren't like the shems, guards, or nobles who had attacked him. He hadn't had much of a choice about hurting that dog, and if one of these animals managed to get out of their leash and lunged at him, he'd do what he had to.

Was there a way out of situations like that? Those two shems wouldn't listen to him. Neither would the nobles or guards. Could there have been some trickery to use against the shems who wanted to abuse him? Raviathan nibbled his lip as he thought. If there was a bit of trickery, he didn't know it. Avoid trouble to begin with? He hadn't been paying attention with the two shems. Trouble seen was trouble avoided. Was it? What could he have done differently that day Vaughan came?

Raviathan didn't hear the pounding in the mud until the horse was ten paces away. He turned enough to see a rider bearing down on him, sword raised. The man was wild eyed, a thick black beard obscuring his face. Shock froze Raviathan a spit second before he dove to the side, narrowly missing the sword aimed for his head. Maker's bloody ass! Hoof beats thundered past as Raviathan scrambled up from the mud. He slipped once and needed to brace against the wall of the house he landed next to.

Oaths from the rider and further down street sounded. Five more men ran at him from the direction the rider had come from. The rider turned his horse around. The great animal struggled to keep his feet in the slick mud, his head back as the rider pulled hard on the reins. The beast slipped and scrambled as the rider focused his attention back on Raviathan, sword naked in the rain.

What in the Maker's name? Raviathan ducked between the homes. At least here he could narrow the field of battle. The alley was large enough to allow weapons free range, but that also meant that Raviathan could be flanked and taken down. Take on five armed and prepared men? If they came around the side, Raviathan would have to fight on two fronts. He couldn't do that. They would cut him down for sure. Never slowing, Raviathan raced to the end of the alley.

"Get out here, you murdering little knife ear!"

Raviathan's heart sped. Revenge for Denerim? Had Vaughan's friends come after him? Or maybe the soldiers that had escaped the poison and fire? Only the nobles had money for horses.

He had to find Duncan. These men weren't going to listen to him.

At the end of the alley, Raviathan pushed off the wall to gain momentum for his direction change. He ran through a garden only dimly registering the shocked looks from the family inside the house.

"This way! Headed west," one of the shems yelled. "Cut him off by Thatcher's house!"

Flames take him! They weren't going to be easy to evade. Run into a house to cause confusion? But his attackers could just go around to meet him at the other entrance, and going through a house would only slow him down. Raviathan took a sharp turn down another alley hoping that would befuddle their plans to head him off. Pick off a few who were chasing him? Even the odds? Conscription or not, he would become the most hunted man in Ferelden if he killed the search parties who came after him. The town wasn't big enough for him to hide in. He needed to get to Duncan. How? Loop around and hope for the best? He was running east, away from the inn and Duncan.

Raviathan jerked back when a dog lunged at him. His back hit the wall of a house, a moment's shock that stole his breath, as the dog snapped at the end of his leash.

"There! That bastard is doubling back!"

Maker help me. Raviathan turned from the dog and dashed behind another house. He was close to the edge of town. Not many more options. Once he was in the open, they would surround him. Or the rider would charge him down. Spying a barrel, Raviathan jumped on it then propelled himself on the thick roof thatching. He scrambled up on hands and feet, staying as low as he could. If there was anyone in the house, they would be able to hear him. Only a matter of time before he was caught.

Three of the men charged down the alley.

"You see where he went?"

"Heading east. Probably to return to the rest of his murdering kin."

"Split up south and east then?"

"East and north. They were travelling north."

"Probably still hiding though. Let's turn the town out before we start chasing rabbit tales."

If he stayed on the roof tops, maybe they wouldn't find him. At least not until he had covered enough ground that he could find Duncan. Raviathan half crawled, half slipped down the other side of the roof. He had jumped roof to roof before, but the roofs in Denerim were much closer together and often made of wood or clay shingles rather than thatch. He had also never done roof hopping in heavy rain with a full load of armor, weapons, and his healer's case bouncing at his side. Raviathan stood carefully on the thatch eying the distance. The alley was clear, but the rain obscured the sounds the attackers made. Raviathan had no idea how far away they could be. All the dogs were barking by now.

Now or never. Raviathan took two steps back to get enough distance to build his momentum. He flew through the air and just caught the second roof. He hoisted his legs up and scrambled. How had he been able to roof hop as a child? At least these were one story homes. Voices floated up from inside the home as he worked his way to the west side. Though he couldn't make out their words, he was sure they were concerned by the commotion coming from their roof. Rushed, Raviathan leapt for the next home.

His foot fell through the thatch just before he could take off. Raviathan spun and plummeted, the muddy earth slamming up to greet him. The dog tied at the back of the house went into hysterics. Mud seeped in through the cracks of his loose armor. Raviathan got to his feet, a little dazed but not too bad. His ankle didn't feel right though. Probably twisted it when he fell. 

Brought by the sounds of the braying dog, two men appeared at the alley. Raviathan took off, hearing curses and calls from behind. He dashed west and back to the main street. Had to get to Duncan.

Halfway down the next alley, the rider blocked him. The horse and rider seemed too big, a great looming tower that blocked all light and escape. Raviathan slid to a halt, slipping in the mud. The rider came forward slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. Panicked, Raviathan unsheathed his sword, swiping it at the horse's head. The horse reared up, as inescapable as an avalanche. His teeth bared, the horse's hooves struck out. An image flashed in Raviathan's mind, the woman crippled and scarred when a horse trampled her. Heart racing, Raviathan raced down the alley.

A man stepped out, but Raviathan didn't even pause. His sword flashed out catching his attacker in the stomach. An angry shout, followed by others, chased Raviathan down. Deciding the rider couldn't get to him if he were inside a home, Raviathan flung open the closest door and charged inside. Maybe he could find a doorway or hall so he wouldn't be flanked. A woman screeched, cowering away from him. The children stared as he ran through. Men shouted from outside.

Dashing through a hallway, Raviathan ducked into a room, closing the door quietly behind him. A nursery. Maker's blood. As if the world needed more shems. Spying a small window over the crib, Raviathan ran. Small, but so was he. No shems on the other side. The sleeping child didn't wake as he pushed the crib aside. Raviathan dropped his case out the window then hauled himself up. He got his head through when he was pulled back. He hadn't even heard them enter the room. Cursing, he tightened his grip and pulled, kicking back at empty air. He couldn't feel a grip. Glancing back, the room was still empty. What? Raviathan groaned when he realized his sword hilt had caught on the window. Of all the stupid...

The door opened behind him followed by more shouting.

"That knife ear is after my baby!" a woman shrieked.

Your baby? What in the world would I do with a giant shem baby? Raviathan scrambled out the window as the baby started to wail. A hand grasped him by the ankle, painfully strong, but a kick dislodged the cursing shem's hand. Raviathan fell on his back, grabbed his case, and headed towards the main street. Where in the Maker's name was Duncan? Surely the whole town was on alert by now.

Further down the tiny side road, Raviathan caught a glimpse of the horse and rider in front of the house he had just escaped along with a larger assortment of villagers who had come to help. Shouts rang out as he dashed to the next alley. Flames take me! Was there any way out of this? Put his back against a wall and fight it out? Fight the whole village until someone got a bow out and shot him? Couldn't outrun a horse. Fire? That had worked before. But the rain. And if there were children in the home who couldn't get out… What to do?

Raviathan dashed across the main street. The horse and rider appeared from the other side of the house on his right. The horse was faster than he, but not as agile. If he could get to the other side, he might be able to keep ahead by dodging through the houses. The villagers were charging behind him, so he had little choice.

In a mad rush, Raviathan dashed across the street. He heard the horse bray, hooves thudding in the mud. Raviathan slid and dodged back as the horse came at him. The rider tried to turn the horse, but Raviathan ducked under the sword slash and sprinted around the animal. The horse now shielded him from the villagers on the other side. Raviathan stumbled, scooped up a handful of mud, and threw it into the rider's face. Shocked and partially blind, the rider cursed, pulling the reins. The horse balked and reared, frightening the villagers from coming too close. When the beast stumbled, Raviathan nearly jumped out of his skin.

The attackers on foot were coming around, flanking him.

"Slippery little bastard, ain't he."

"Who'd have thought one little knife ear would cause this much trouble?"

Raviathan drew his weapons, backpedaling quickly to keep them from flanking. A child's voice called out, "Uncle William! Don't kill him!"

Raviathan glanced over to see Billy running up and waving his hands over his head. "Billy, get back to your home," Raviathan ordered, pointing with his dagger.

The men glanced at each other. The boy paid no heed, instead standing in front of Raviathan. The child had wide, frightened eyes, his mouth open, but he would not budge. "Billy," Raviathan hissed. "This is no place for you. Get back home!" He sheathed his dagger and pushed the child behind him. He jerked his sword when one of the original attackers neared to close.

"Billy," the rider said, warning in his voice. "Leave. Now."

The child gulped but would not budge. "Uncle, he cared for Ellison. He's a healer. On his way south to the army."

"South?" The attackers glanced at each other.

"Only Dalish carry weapons," the rider said to Raviathan.

"Dalish?" Raviathan stared at the man. They thought he was Dalish? So, not from Denerim on a mission of revenge. No wonder they knew the town so well. "I'm from the Denerim alienage."

"Uncle," Billy said, "I saw him. He figured out Ellison right quick. Made a potion for her and everything. Said he was con-script-id for the King's army."

The rider took Raviathan's measure. "Who's the Arl of Denerim?"

"Urien Kendells," Raviathan said without hesitation.

"William," one of the attackers said. "Anyone can know that."

"Who's the arl of South Reach?" The rider's gaze never wavered from Raviathan.

Raviathan shook his head.

"Arl of Dragon's Peak? Teyrn of Gwaren?"

"I don't know, ser."

"Elves don't follow human politics. Especially the Dalish. They can sometimes name the King and that's about it. Only city elves know the bann or arl that's over them." The rider sheathed his weapon, apparently satisfied.

"Then why'd he run?" one of the men asked.

"Because he," Raviathan said indicating the rider, "nearly took my head off with that sword. Pardon me for assuming you weren't going to listen at that point."

"You're a healer," the rider said.

"Yes, ser."

The rider gestured at his men. "Take him. We'll bring him back to the farmstead."

"What?" Raviathan backed up with his sword raised. "You can't just snatch me off the street." Maker curse these arrogant bastards. They had been prepared to run him through based on nothing more than an assumption. What qualms would they have about a little kidnapping.

"You think that's wise, William?"

"We need a healer. Old Beth can't do more than shake sticks and moan."

"You just tried to kill me," Raviathan squawked. "I don't even get an apology for that before you try to kidnap me?"

"Take him," the rider said, unimpressed.

Raviathan backed up, keeping Billy behind him. "No. I'm a Grey Warden. You've no right to attack me during a blight, let alone kidnap me."

One of the men snorted. "A Grey Warden? You?"

"We'll have none of you lies, knife ears."

"I'm here with Warden Commander Duncan. We're staying at the inn. Talk to him if you don't believe me."

One of the men who had been silent so far spoke up. "What if he's telling the truth?"

"A Warden knife ear? You off your head?"

The quiet one spoke again. "Darkspawn in the south. Rumors are this is a blight."

"Doesn't make him anything but a knife ear with a big mouth."

The rider wheeled the horse around, making the villagers shy away. "I said take him! We've got little enough time as it is."

"Now wait just one bloody second," Raviathan said, raising his sword to the men who approached. "I've said the truth. Send someone to the inn…"

The horse jumped forward. Startled, Raviathan shied away. The men were ready to take advantage of the distraction and knocked his sword aside. Before he could do more than yelp, Raviathan was hauled up. The rider's arm was like steel around his stomach, settling Raviathan firmly astride the horse. Gut fluttering from the horse's movement and height, Raviathan could do little more than clutch the shem's arm and curse his luck.


	21. Strange Bedfellows – Bloody Shems

The town sped by, unreal from the back of a moving animal. Raviathan felt sick, knocked about by the horse's odd gait. He had never so much as ridden in a wagon let alone atop any living creature. The horse's rocking made the height worse, less stable. Buildings, though higher, were at least stable, a perch where he had more control, a better sense of balance and distance. This was chaos and thudding about. The rider grunted when Raviathan slid and fell back hard. They didn't slow as the rider manhandled him into a firm position on his lap, his arm so tight around Raviathan's middle he could only manage shallow gasps. Between his lack of air and the frenzied ride, Raviathan felt like the world was starting to spin. "Let me go!"

The rider ignored him.

Raviathan started squirming as best he could, pushing against the rider's arm and kicking back ineffectually.

"Stop that! Fall, break your neck, and you won't be a help to anyone."

"Let me go!"

"Shut it." The rider tightened his arm until Raviathan was sure he was going to be cut in two parts.

"You shems think you own everything, can do what you want. You'd take the sun and wind for your own if you could."

"That's right. Now shut up."

Oh, what was the point, Raviathan thought. Instead of arguing, he tried to focus on the horizon as that seemed to settle his nausea. Not that he would mind throwing up on the rider, but he wasn't at a good enough angle to manage that without further dirtying up his already mud drenched clothes.

Panic seized him when they headed straight toward a fence. Maker, no. Visions of the horse's legs hitting the stone wall and the two of them catapulting over flashed into his mind. Broken bones and blood. The horse spinning from the impact, speed rushing the hundreds upon hundreds of pounds of horse on him, crushing. He felt the horse's muscles bunch beneath him, the rider press forward squeezing him between horse and human. The horse leapt, a motion that left Raviathan's stomach behind, and landed with an impact that jarred his teeth together. After that, Raviathan closed his eyes and willed his mind into oblivion.

The rider leaned back but did not lessen his grip around Raviathan's waist in the slightest. They slowed enough for the horse to make his way down a ditch, the rider moving back to keep his balance, his grip forcing Raviathan to do the same. Though secondary to his panic from the horse and sickening ride, the indignity of having his ass pressed tight into the shem's crotch mingled with his frustration.

All thought was left behind at the horse's next jump out of the ditch, a hop that turned Raviathan's stomach inside out. How much longer? The horse ran at a full gallop across the field, his labored breathing echoing off the near hills.

Anxiety could only freeze his thoughts for so long. Maker, how did he always seem to end up in these situations? What would Duncan think about what happened? Would Duncan be able to find him? The villagers and this shem were apparently on friendly terms. The villagers would most likely know where Raviathan was being taken, but that also meant they would be unlikely to help, too. What was the problem with shems? Every time he had been accosted, threatened, and now kidnapped, shems were always the source. True, he'd had run-ins with his fellows in the alienage, but never to the intensity he experienced when he was among shems.

His stomach clenched when the horse bunched beneath him yet again. The horse lurched up, and Raviathan was sure the horse's neck would have slammed into his face if the shem's grip hadn't been so tight.

Curse these shems. He was going to be sick.

A low sprawling farmstead squatted on the rise over a swollen creek. The shem, William, slowed his horse to traverse the creek, the cold water chilling Raviathan's feet. The cold felt good on his twisted ankle. As if Raviathan hadn't hated the ride enough, the horse stumbled up the steep bank, hooves clanking against stone as the beast skittered and hauled the three of them up. Raviathan's breath caught as he quickly chanted a prayer to the Maker when the horse slipped.

Head spinning, Raviathan breathed a limited sigh of relief when the ride finally ended at the farmstead door. The arm that had kept him so firmly ensconced during the ride now pulled him down. Raviathan twisted to try to land on his feet, but a stab of pain went through his ankle. He stumbled and fell backwards into a mud puddle.

All dignity gone, Raviathan tried to manage furious as he glared up at the shem. The horse had steam rising off his flanks. William was as moved by the glare as a rock would be.

"Inside you'll find a man. If he's still alive, you will treat him."

The rider wheeled his horse around, and no amount of glaring changed anything about Raviathan's situation. His butt wasn't going to get less cold sitting in a puddle. Slapping his hand against the water in frustration, Raviathan struggled to his feet and limped to the house with as much resentment as he could muster. What kind of Grey Warden gets knocked out at his own wedding or gets kidnapped by a mob of shems in a strange town? Raviathan pushed his hair out of his face, mainly succeeding in getting his hair muddy. Why in the Maker's name did Duncan have such faith in him?

A hearth fire burned on the other side of the door, adding warmth and light to the house. A middle aged woman who had been tending the fire stared at him when he entered. She wore a simple homespun, brown dress over her white shift. Little tendrils of fine brown hair had escaped from her bun. Though of middle years, she had beautiful, unwrinkled skin for a shem.

"I'm a healer," Raviathan said, unwilling to keep the irritation out of his voice. "I was told there is a man in need of attention."

The woman put a hand to her chest. "You… you're a healer?"

"Yes," Raviathan said, sharper than he intended. "Your name?"

"Molly."

"I'm given to understand this is an emergency."

Without another word, the woman led him to a room, casting a backwards glance his way. Raviathan could smell old blood and the onset of infection before he entered. The unconscious man laying in the bed had large arms, a thick neck, and a barrel chest, typical of a man who did heavy labor for his keep. The wiry red bristles of his beard stood out against his pale, sweaty skin.

"Bandits," the woman said behind him, low so as not to disturb the sleeping patient. "Think they used poison on their blades."

"Why do you think they used poison?"

"He's feverish, sweaty. Can't stay awake and is confused when I try to wake him. Doesn't know where he is."

Raviathan turned around then made shooing motions at the woman when she didn't get out of the way.

"Wait," she said with rising desperation, "you're not going to leave?"

"I'm covered in mud. I need to clean up or I'm only going to make him worse. I need soap, strips of clean fabric, and boiling water."

She froze for a moment as she contemplated his list then left with an abrupt turn. "Water is on the fire. Was going to make soup, but I haven't added anything yet."

"Then I'll clean in that. Get me soap and another pot to boil. Cloth after that."

She nodded absently and hurried away. Settling in front of the fire, Raviathan pulled out his instruments first to clean, the finely edged steel glinting bright in the fire, then he pulled off his ruined cloak and armor. His cloak was still salvageable, but it would need to be cleaned and re-oiled to be of use. Not going to happen in this rain. The week's marching ahead promised to leave him soaking and cold.

The woman slapped a lump of soap in his hand before running off to complete the other tasks he'd set for her. Raviathan stripped down to his pants. He would have changed if he could, or gone down to his small clothes if he was at home. The thought of home sent a brief stab of pain, and he wondered how his family and friends were doing. They had no one to heal their wounds or care for them anymore. What would Valendrian or the orphan keeper Venri do now? What would any of them do?

Raviathan peeled off his boots last. If he didn't take off his boot now, odds were good he wouldn't be able to get it off later after his ankle swelled. Damn shems.

Instruments and thread cleaned, Raviathan washed himself as best he could in the hot water. When the woman returned with a freshly ripped bed sheet, Raviathan said, "I need as many candles as you can spare to light the room." She nodded and hurried away. Raviathan took three strips to wrap his ankle. Sighing, he gathered his instruments and left to work on the shem.

~o~O~o~

Raviathan limped out of the room to sit by the fire. He rotated his neck, then his shoulders in an effort to release the tension that had built up over the hours of working on his patient.

Molly shot to her feet when he entered. "How is he?"

"You're his wife?"

She nodded.

"He's lost a lot of blood." Raviathan slumped in a chair next to the fire and rested his ankle on the stool to warm by the fire. "You're right about the poison. I've done what I could for that, but he'll need time before it works out of his system. Longer because of blood loss. And his wounds were infected. I'll make a potion for you to give him. His bandages need to be changed daily. Fresh, clean bandages. I've left a shunt to drain out his infection. You can take it out when fluid stops draining. About three or four days or so."

"So… will he heal?"

"I expect so. He's strong and very healthy. It'll take time, but he should be able to walk a bit in a few weeks. You might need to hire help in the spring for your farm, but he'll be right by harvest."

The woman sat back down, her tears silent save for a few demure sniffles.

"He'll be fine," Raviathan said, quiet in deference to the woman's relief. "A few new scars."

Molly put her head down, her shoulders shaking in halting jerks as if she was embarrassed by her emotion. "Aye, ser."

Raviathan blinked. That was the first time anyone had addressed him as 'ser'. "He really will be fine."

She nodded but said nothing, her head bowed. The fire let out a pop, but save for her tears and the rain, the room remained quiet and still.

Had they both been elves back in the alienage, Raviathan would have held her while she cried. Here, he just didn't know what to do. Human rules and conduct baffled him. Had he been asked, he would have helped that man, would have argued with Duncan had his mentor tried to deny him, not that Raviathan thought Duncan would have tried to stop him. But grabbing him off the street? After trying to kill him. The whole situation was beyond strange.

Templars had always been the reason for hiding before. Raviathan hadn't considered that humans would hunt him as a general rule. Perhaps Valendrian and his father's experience with humans had been at play in keeping his skills a secret in the past. But then, how do shem healers cope? Were they constantly under attack too? That crone, Old Beth, had not been a target, though only a fool would attempt to make use of that one.

Did the villagers understand Old Beth was a charlatan? Old Beth thought she had them fooled. She had been poisoning them with superstition for years now, but maybe these people did know the difference. If so, they would be desperate for a healer. Enough to kidnap an elf off the street based on the scant evidence of a child's word. The treatment of an ear infection to this man's near fatal wounds were leagues apart, but if there were no other options available, Raviathan could understand these people's desperation even if he didn't care for their methods.

Not for the first time, Raviathan worried about the people he had left behind. With the filth, poor nutrition, sewage issues that resulted in dirty water and dysentery, and that was ignoring illnesses caused from exposure or neglect, his kinsmen were in for rough times. Even though he had practiced covertly, Raviathan had still been able to head off wide spread disease with a few careful words of caution.

Children like Zacky were such fragile little souls. Would he survive the winter? Now that Raviathan was gone, the rest of the children's future became that much more precarious. In the past two years of practicing on his own, Raviathan had begun to understand Solyn's distance from her fellows. She loved her kin in the alienage. That fact had always remained clear. Raviathan knew few who could match her compassion. However, there always remained an invisible barrier between herself and all others save for that of her immediate family. One wall of separation had disappeared between them when he was five. Without noticing, she had pulled him across that line between healer and patient, so the two of them stood together with their fellows on the other side. Shems were a world unto themselves.

Though lonely, the barriers were a necessity. He knew that. The first time he had to diagnose a patient on his own, not having his aunt's experience to guide him from misstep, Raviathan knew what it was to be alone. There was no one to keep him from failing, no guiding hand who could take the brunt of consequence from him. When a patient got better or died, people looked at him. Whether they thanked the Maker for blessed health, blamed him for a death, or quietly accepted the fate of their loved one, whatever outside force they attributed to their health, he was the catalyst. Raviathan understood well enough the burden of another life.

Life.

For a moment, Raviathan's mind went blank of conscious thought. Images of blood flowing like a river on stone, black smoke hovering above like a vulture to snatch the weak, Nola's sightless grey eyes staring at her rapist—devoid of all the hate and pain that should be there. They had denied her even that. A splatter of blood on white legs. Not even allowed to feel our own pain. Not allowed to scream.

The door opened with a bang of wood against plaster. Raviathan tore his eyes away from the fire to find the shem who kidnapped him standing in the doorway. His eyes bore down on Raviathan. His gaze flicked down, taking in Raviathan's half clothed state, then turned to the crying woman.

"Well?" he addressed the room in general. The shem had a way of filling the doorway, making the room feel like half the size it had been a moment ago. Raviathan glared at him, his muscles tense, to run, fight, or both, he wasn't sure.

The woman broke the growing tension. "Says he'll live. Be hale by harvest."

Relief relaxed his features for an instant. He shouted the news to whoever was outside then came into the home to flop into the closest chair. He stretched his legs out, his boots adding fresh mud to the otherwise clean floor. Eyes closed, he ignored the glaring elf with ease.

"Well?" Raviathan demanded in a tone he hoped sounded as authoritative as this shem, the obvious leader of this community, and not at all petulant.

"Get the men a drink," William ordered. Raviathan's brows knit as Molly hurried off. Raviathan sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. He wished he could feel more annoyed than he did. He wished he could manage angry, especially at this shem's disregard, but the hours of surgery for a person in grave need had robbed him of much of his temper. Especially after the flight that morning, Raviathan felt tired more than anything else. Still, a certain fight if for no other purpose than his pride was in order. "So, am I to be held for ransom or will you at least parley with me?"

The shem snorted. "Parley?" One dark eye silted open to gaze at him, the hint of a grin playing at his mouth. Raviathan got the impression he was being laughed at. The man grunted, the humor fading away. "Your 'commander' was rather irritated by your disappearance."

"You mean kidnapping?"

"Don't get so dramatic."

The anger Raviathan had wanted started to boil. For the first time since he entered the room, he wondered what happened to his equipment. "Taken off the street against my protests… Damn shems." William raised his brows at the slur. "If you had asked, but no."

Dark eyes regarded him, the human's expression growing sharper. "You think elves are a mystery to me? I've known your kind. A tribe decides to move in, and what was acceptable hunting ground for families who can't afford to keep livestock is suddenly off limits. Our warning? Men strung up and left for the bears or to die with blood leaking out their faces. Don't start with me on fair."

"I said before. I'm not Dalish. The only time I've ever hurt one of your kind was in defense of myself or my people. It's like claiming you are personally responsible for the slavery of my people"

The man snorted. "But you do. I said before. Your kind aren't a mystery. You carry around your history, logging up all insults and wear it like armor."

"And that gives you the right to kidnap me?"

"Of course not. I just don't care."

Stunned by the admission, Raviathan sat back. The man let out a bark of laughter. "Lower your hackles. I'll take you back in a bit. Between bandits, Dalish, drought then flood, and the King's army taking too much of our winter reserves, the forcible use of a healer for one morning's work ranks low on my list."

Raviathan glared at the fire. Sap saturated wood popped, the embers a warm glow of hypnotic shifting colors. The smell of fire brought back memories of rooms overflowing with smoke. Cracking beams, blood heavy with metal, fear. Raviathan blinked, pushing down images that kept crawling back in still moments. He said quietly, "If you had asked…"

"Perhaps." William scratched his cheek, the rasp loud against his wild beard. "I didn't think you'd come willingly after being hunted as a Dalish through the streets. If you had a master, or commander as it were, I didn't want an added fight either. Easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. Less blood too."

Raviathan tightened his arms across his chest. "Arrogant shem," he said, a whisper just above the sounds of rain and fire.

"That's right. I'm an arrogant bastard shem who abuses unsuspecting travelers who dare to enter my lands."

Raviathan huffed, slumping back further in his chair to stare at the fire. For so many years he had feared templars. He had seen Solyn's body, knew exactly how they had broken her. The memory of that day had been burned into his mind, seared again after seeing the shems abuse a dead virginal girl only days ago. Templars were still a very real threat. Raviathan made up his mind to talk with Duncan about the problem templars might cause, now that Duncan would know how much of a threat shems were to him. How much to say though? Solyn's death was a memory he did not relish retelling; however, Duncan had been nothing but patience and calm council. Would knowing how she died be enough, or would he dismiss Raviathan's very real fears even after the evidence of this day? 

Raviathan rubbed his forehead as he ran through possible ways to explain, objections Duncan would have and how to counter them. When he looked up, he found the shem smirking at him. Raviathan glowered back.

"Why are you half naked?"

Of all the ways to phrase that! "I was covered in mud. I didn't want to risk infection. Especially since I'm not staying to care for him."

"Brave words, that. What if I hadn't been willing to let you go?"

"Doesn't matter what you want. You'd only be able to detain me for so long."

"Ho-ho." The shem's face brightened with increased interest. He leaned forward, his grin becoming more predatory. "Is that so?"

"Yes," Raviathan said, glaring back, though he felt worry rising up in him as he took note of the wolfish aspect to the shem's expression. What was wrong with this man?

"I might change my mind about keeping you."

The shem looked like he was ready to lunge, intention written in every line of his body. Raviathan tensed to bolt if the man so much as twitched. "I'm not a cock rider."

The shem's smile widened, a slash of white in his dark bristles. With exaggerated slowness, he leaned back. Raviathan did not take his focus away for a second.

"No? Your master seemed rather put out."

"He's not my master. And we're not lovers."

The shem laughed, a hard derisive bark of sound, sharp to Raviathan's ears. "What's he waiting for?" Leering, the shem leaned forward. In response, Raviathan pushed as far back into the chair as he could. William's voice was a growl, his presence overbearing. "If he hasn't grabbed you yet, it's only because he's never been with an elf before. And you, elf, are a cock rider. You just don't know it yet. The way that ass of yours thumped in my lap, over and over…"

"You're disgusting."

He laughed. "Take your first cock, and you'll present like a bitch in heat, just like every other elf who said they weren't a cock rider."

Raviathan brought his knees to his chest. He felt sick, wanting nothing more than to get out of this place and away from this horror of a man.

"Does it hurt?"

Raviathan frowned. "What hurt?" He was sure he was setting himself up for some disgusting line. Perhaps if he had stayed at the docks for another few months, he'd have developed an automatic witty retort to stop the expected crudeness, but they day had been too strange, this shem was too strange, for him to produce anything resembling brilliant.

"Your ankle."

"What?" Raviathan looked back at his bandaged foot. "I twisted it. I'm fine now."

"Indeed." The shem loaded enough innuendo in the single word to make Raviathan's face burn.

"Stop these games!" William threw back his head in a full belly laugh. Raviathan stood, paced across the room. Where in the Maker's name were his weapons? He could take one of the fire irons to the shem's head, would serve the bastard right too, but what then? His fellows were outside ready to skewer a single elf for the entertainment value alone. Raviathan had no idea where he was or how to get back to Duncan. Didn't even know the name of the village he was taken from. Helpless. Not completely, but near enough that he wouldn't risk his odds unless he had to. So far, the shem had done nothing more than try to provoke him . Why, Raviathan had no idea. Frustrated, Raviathan balled his hands into fists. His eyes burned. Oh dear Maker, don't you dare cry now. Not now in front of this man. "I've done nothing to you. I even saved your friend. Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Is this what Grey Wardens are? Weak, little elves who can't even defend themselves? That last sounded pathetic, even to himself. Leave him alone? When did shems ever leave them alone? Duncan would have to admit his mistake now. Did that mean he would be sent to the gallows after all? Duncan wouldn't do that to him. Tell him to run off to the Dalish? Maybe.

The shem wasn't laughing anymore. William stood, watching. When he took a step forward, Raviathan stepped back, keeping their distance. If the shem did close the gap, what could Raviathan do? Fight him? The shem was bigger, stronger, armed and armored. Raviathan didn't even have a shirt let alone boots. They knew the territory. He didn't. Running would be next to impossible. But this wasn't the first time Raviathan had dealt with these kinds of odds. He had survived before. If the shem pushed, Raviathan would show the man what happened when shems went too far.

Raviathan scanned the room without taking his eyes off the shem. Furniture to dodge behind or throw. This man was invested in his people. If Raviathan dove for the fire, scattered the embers, the shem would take care of that first, long before the fire could get out of control to harm his sleeping patient. The iron poker was a crude weapon, but something he could use. Run? Or find his equipment first? Would need another distraction for the men outside. Rain, mud, animals. How could he use those? How many men were out there? How prepared were they for a chase? Dogs? Would he have dogs sent on him? Every human seemed to have at least one. Harming a dog would be sure to make the villagers see red.

The shem raised his arms away from his body, placating. When he took a step forward, Raviathan took another step back, his hand jerking. He wanted to grip the wooden chair back, to be ready to throw it, but he didn't want to show his intention to his enemy either. From the expression in the shem's face, Raviathan knew he had let his tactic be shown. Surprise wasn't on his side anymore.

Why? Why can't they just leave me alone? His heart called out for Nesiara. Gone. She was gone because of men like this. Because they just wouldn't leave them alone. Raviathan felt like his heart was being crushed. She was gone. Everyone he loved was getting further and further away with each day, each step towards the violence in the south. Ness was gone and his ache for her was as real as his heart beating too fast in his chest.

The door opened, and Raviathan took advantage of the shem's split second of distraction. He hurled the heavy chair, twisting his body to put as much force as he could into the throw. He kicked a table at the door, heard muffled curses from the other side.

What chance did he have? Burn the house so he could run? Raviathan dove around the shem, grabbed the poker and shovel by the fire. He turned, brandishing the poker like a sword, the shovel thrust into the fire ready to scatter embers.

"Come near me and I'll throw the fire. The thatch will catch. All this wood. Your man will burn to death."

The quiet shem from that morning crept into the room, wide-eyed. His features were large and long. "William?" he asked, his calm voice contrasting with the alarm on his face. "What exactly has been going on here?"

Raviathan jerked, the poker wavering, when the two men moved further into the room. "My equipment. I want my equipment. Then let me go." Part of Raviathan's mind knew that he was panicking. If this came to a fight, he wouldn't be able to control himself. Control won in a fight, his only hope to battle those who were stronger.

The men continued to stare at him. What could he do? What were his options? He'd have to burn the house. Otherwise, they'd just overwhelm him with numbers as they had done before. Molly hadn't done him harm. She would be the one damaged with her home ruined in winter. And his patient. Maybe his patient was another murderous shem, but that man was still his patient. If Duncan was here, at least he'd have a second set of arms, a person to help guard his blind side. What to do?

"Stay away!" Raviathan twitched, his grip on the shovel tightening. "I swear to the Maker, I will burn this house down if you don't let me go."

"Easy," William said. At least he wasn't laughing anymore.

"William," Molly called from the entrance. "What did you do?"

"Me?"

Molly gave him a look. "Don't even try with me. He was calm when I left. What did you do?"

"I was only trying to take the piss out of him."

"No one gets like that from a bit of heckling," the quiet one said.

"I swear," William said, his arms raised.

The quiet one sighed, his shoulders slumped. "Go. See to the horses. You've done enough here."

William drew himself up, his face hardened as if he had been insulted. He glanced back at Raviathan, a long look, then left.

"My equipment. Then let me go." Raviathan wanted to crawl up in some dark corner and sleep, pretend this day had just been a bad dream. He wanted to pretend the last week hadn't happened. Let me wake up, find Ness snuggled in my arms like she should be. Like we were meant to be.

"I cleaned your clothes and armor," Molly said, shoulders slumped, her face tight in a long suffering countenance, like a mother with a misbegotten child. "Dried them by the fire then put them away. Thought you might stay a bit. I'll get them." She left down the hall.

The quiet one kept his hands in view. He moved with care, putting the table and chair to right. Molly returned with an armful. She glanced at Raviathan for permission. He pointed to a spot on the floor with the poker. He watched the two, unmoving, until Molly took the other man by the arm and led him off.

His armor and boots were clean, his clothes smelling of soap. The ruined cloak was clean with a fresh sheen from a new coat of oil. Raviathan slumped. Defeat wore at him. How in the Maker's name was he supposed to fight in a war? This world of humans wasn't any place for him.

Dressed, Raviathan left the house. He didn't care anymore that he didn't know where he was. Rain pelted the ground, and he knew he would regret not asking for directions when he was lost in the night, but right now, he just wanted to get away.

At the sound of hoof beats behind him, Raviathan shied away.

"Come on," William said. "Said I'd take you back."

Raviathan ignored him. They had crossed the creek, so that direction was a start. There had to be a bridge. Through the grey haze of rain, Raviathan spied a simple plank bridge behind the house past the creek bend. While there was no sun to help give him a sense of direction, Raviathan guessed the last fence the horse had jumped would be the right general direction.

"Don't be stubborn. You're going to get lost."

The bridge vibrated with the heavy sound of hooves.

So, double back. How far away were they? Maybe if he could find the main road he and Duncan had travelled? Ask directions from a farmstead? He still didn't know the name of the town. They hadn't passed many villages the day before, so perhaps asking for the closest inn would be helpful.

Leather creaked followed by the shem's boots hitting mud. Tension pulled Raviathan's shoulders tight.

"Farmers see you walking through their fields, and you'll be dodging bolts. A Dalish tribe moved through recently on their way north. Caused a bit of ruckus, what with the raids and all."

"I'm not Dalish."

"So, he speaks!"

The fence was much taller than Raviathan thought from his view on horseback. The stones were old and weathered. They jutted out which made for easy grips, but the loose stone would also fall away with minor pressure.

"Do you think they'll ask you if you're Dalish first? Did we?"

Raviathan put a hand on the stone, testing it. Odds were good he could scramble over. Would the farmers shoot him? If a mob of men were willing to kill him for walking through a village, likely the farm holders would also shoot first. But he could be anyone. A neighbor's still growing child. Was the shem playing on his fears to embarrass him into another ride? And all the fun that ride might imply? "Where's the main road?"

The horse let out a loud whinny, his lips pulled back to expose large, blocky teeth. Raviathan took a few steps back, stumbling on a fallen stone.

William thumped the horse on the nose. The horse huffed from great lungs, his head going high.

"You're a skittish one," William said, addressing the elf.

"I don't like horses."

William studied him, contemplative as he hadn't been before. "Look. It's too long to walk on a twisted ankle. I'll hitch him to a cart. Take you back. Proper like."

"I don't want anything from you!" Raviathan yelled, surprising himself with the unexpected flare of anger. "Tell me where the road is and how to get back or leave me be!"

Rain poured down in waves. William stared at him, water dripping from his hawkish nose. Judging from the hardened expression on the shem's face, Raviathan tensed to dodge a punch. William pulled hard on the reins, the horse's head jerking up in surprise. He wheeled about and led the horse back to the farm.

Testing each hand hold, Raviathan picked his way over the fence, his healer's bag banging his side. Raviathan scanned the field. No farm house. Grey rain obscured his view beyond a few hundred feet. I'm going to get lost. I'll probably get shot. Raviathan put his head down and decided now was the perfect time to indulge in a little self pity. He trudged across the field, the mud sucking at his boots. Maybe he'd get shot. Maybe he'd get lost—more lost than he already was—freeze during the night and turn into an elf-cicle. Bloody shems.


	22. Strange Bedfellows – Oh Humans and Shems

A bloody sunset lit the underside of rain heavy clouds, tinting them a shade of bruised purple. Raviathan's feet ached with cold. The cart jostled back and forth, enough that he never felt stable. At least the plodding, sleepy ox pulled the cart at a placid gait. The beast may have more mass, but it didn't have the quick, out of control power a horse did. Raviathan wanted to close his eyes, just to rest a moment, but the cart kept shaking him. He must have dozed at some point because he didn't realize they had reached the village until the cart stopped.

"Thanks," Raviathan said.

"Thanks to you, ser." The human held out a hand, which Raviathan took, surprised by the gesture. "Now, I know this ain't much…"

Raviathan waved away the pouch. "Ride was enough."

"Nonsense, ser. I'm in a position where I've got no cause for accepting charity."

Raviathan considered. He'd never taken coin for his work before. Wasn't this exactly what he was considering before he was recruited into the Wardens? To become a paid healer, taking in humans to subsidize the work he'd do for the elves? "Thank you."

The man nodded. "Twice a day, you said?"

"For two weeks. Should clear up by then."

"Aye."

Duncan appeared at the doorway. Surprised, Raviathan dropped from the cart to the ground harder than he intended. His ankle gave the barest twinge. "D-Duncan?"

The warrior's sword was out, wrath pinned on the driver as he strode forward. 

"No. No, wait," Raviathan said, hands out on Duncan's chest. "He didn't do anything. Just gave me a ride back."

Duncan spared a glance at Raviathan before returning his glare at the frightened farmer. Duncan nodded once, sheathed his sword, then put a protective arm around Raviathan's shoulders to lead him back to the inn.

"Bath or food first?"

Considering his last meal had been breakfast, and the bath would take some preparation, Raviathan chose the meal.

"Bann Harrin's knights are here," Duncan said. "They have some questions for you." At Raviathan's pained look, Duncan explained, "So they know what happened is all. You're a Grey Warden, Rav. Any act against a Grey Warden during a blight is treason. Ser Finnian will make his report to the bann. If you'd like, I'll be there."

"Yes, I'd appreciate that."

With a squeeze on Raviathan's shoulder, Duncan left to order their meal then returned. Ser Finnian had thin, red hair that hung to the sides of his head making his ears seem overlarge. The long lines of his face ended in a long, pointed chin. He looked completely average to Raviathan. Could be another dock worker, had the knight been in home spun rather than armor. "Is this your charge, Warden?"

"Yes," Duncan replied. Raviathan was thrown by Finnian's high, gentle voice. This was a knight? Two other knights, both still in the last years of their teens, came to attention. Their shields had the same split heraldry, a black tree on a gold background under a black lion against grey.

The head knight turned to Raviathan, and gave him a small bow with his arms crossed over his chest. "Well met, ser. I am Finnian, knight of Bann Harrin who is under the Southron Arling. Always an honor to meet one of the Grey, though I wish this were under more pleasant circumstances."

Raviathan blinked. How was he supposed to respond to that? Bowed to by a human? And there was that 'ser' again. "Um… thanks."

The knight straightened. If he was put out by Raviathan's lack of etiquette, he had more grace than to show it. "Would you speak of what happened then?"

After the knight's bow and ceremony, Raviathan felt even more ridiculous recounting the chase through the streets. Grey Warden, indeed.

"Why did they attack you?"

"Thought I was Dalish at first. I told them I was with the Grey Wardens, that they could confirm that with Duncan. They thought I was lying. The brother of an ill child I saw to this morning told them I was a healer. That's when William took me."

"Were you injured, ser?"

"Um, no."

"From the witnesses I spoke with, they said you were limping."

"I twisted my ankle when I fell off the roof, but I'm fine now."

"Why were you taken?"

"By William? He wanted me to heal a man injured by bandits."

"How did you escape?"

"I didn't escape. He was going to bring me back when I finished, then he..." Raviathan felt his face grow hot. "He propositioned me. I decided it would be best if I made my own way, but I guess news that I'm a healer travelled. When a farmer saw me crossing his field, he offered to drive me here if I saw to his family."

"You said Lord William propositioned you?"

Lord William? Maker's ass. What was it with shem lords? Raviathan crossed his arms over his chest, his shoulders hunched. "How explicit do you need me to be? Said he was joking when the others came in." One of the young knights looked him up and down, but the other kept his gaze steady. Raviathan glared at the one who had ogled him. Ogled. Raviathan felt dirty.

"Do you know which farmstead he took you to?"

"No idea." Raviathan shrugged. "Near a creek. Wife of the injured man is named Molly."

Finnian gave a thoughtful nod. "Did Molly know your position?"

"That I'm a Grey Warden recruit, or that I was kidnapped?"

The knight's mouth quirked. "Both."

"I didn't tell her about either, so no? I went to work on her husband."

"Why didn't you say anything? Who you are or your circumstances?"

"What would it change? The sh… her husband needed healing. It was an emergency."

"Did Sean know?" At Raviathan's puzzled expression, Finnian clarified. "The man you healed."

"He was unconscious the whole time. When the poison starts working out of his body, he may be delusional for a day, but you can speak with him after that. So, you knew where I was taken then?"

"I was not sure," Finnian replied. "There have been multiple attacks on the western boarders of Harrin's land. Bandits and a tribe of Dalish moving north. A number of farmsteaders have suffered injuries, and our lands have been without a proper healer for years, which has made some freemen rather… desperate. When I questioned the villagers, all of whom were agog at the news a healer was passing through, I opined you would be safe enough, which I explained to your Commander," Finnian said casting a quick glance at Duncan. "You might be overworked, perhaps, but few would risk injuring such a valued resource, particularly now."

Valued resource, Raviathan thought resentfully. As if he were a prized ox.

Finnian continued at his silence. "Were you paid for your services?"

Raviathan hesitated. "I've never asked for payment before."

The knight's focus sharpened. "Don't charge? But didn't you state you were a healer?"

"I'm… I worked for my alienage. They couldn't afford to pay me."

"Couldn't afford?" The knight narrowed his eyes, mystified. "How then did you live, ser?"

"I was a dock worker." Raviathan looked down, embarrassed by his station in front of these men.

All of the knights' full attention was on him now. One of them scoffed. "From dock worker to Grey Warden? That's quite the promotion. Whose cock did yo-" A clank of metal sounded as his fellow elbowed him in the side.

Finnian turned, very slowly, and strode to the younger man. His words were too low for Raviathan to hear what was said, but from the look on the younger knight's face, Raviathan would have paid money to hear what went between them. When finished, Finnian turned back to Raviathan, giving him a deep bow. "Ser. My deepest apologies for the slight. Such words are most unbecoming, a sentiment not fit for present company."

"Uh," Raviathan stopped himself from taking a step back. Everything about this was off. "Ser, um, Finnian. You gave no insult. Please, don't, uh, bow."

"My charge spoke out of turn. As he is my charge, his behavior is a reflection upon myself. I have not been thorough enough in his education if he feels free to disrespect a man of your station. His failure is mine, for which I accept responsibility. Ser, please forgive this slight."

Alarmed, Raviathan looked back up at the young knight. Brown hair and wide features, the young knight's cheeks glowed red, his gaze locked on the floor. If he were any random elf, Raviathan would have been nothing to these men. He thought he should feel honored. Vindicated at least. This is how people should behave. Respectful. Wasn't this what he had wanted from humans? Some basic courtesy, the same courtesy they showed one another?

Instead, Raviathan felt hollow. Not a week ago, these same men would have call him knife ear, propositioned him with little regard for his protests, allowed a lord to steal women to be raped. Raviathan was no different, no better than he had been a week ago when guards, knights, and nobles took what they wanted without a thought to the dignity of his people. Instead of reveling in the manners his station now demanded, Raviathan felt even dirtier. Like a pretender. Not only was he not a Grey Warden yet, the manners of these men were a simple courtesy of Raviathan’s new station, not how they would truly behave if their trappings of nobility were stripped away. We're all pretenders here.

"Please," Raviathan said, unable to look at any of them now. "Your apology is unnecessary."

"You are too gracious, ser." Finnian straightened. "But this does bring me to my next question. Would you accept a formal apology from Lord William?"

"Apology?" Raviathan folded his arms over his chest. "No. Not from him."

Regarding Raviathan with a thoughtful tilt of his head, Finnian said, "For injuries to your person, such a settlement is common."

Raviathan lifted his chin up. "He said 'better to apologize than ask for permission'. His words mean nothing to me."

When Raviathan caught Finnian's weary expression, a look he had seen often in Valendrian, he knew this man didn't pretend at his code. Understanding flashed through Raviathan’s mind as he studied the knight. Just a man, like any other, and yet his bearing set him apart, like a diamond among glass stones. Raviathan's own bitterness was getting in the way of seeing that fact because it was easier to be angry. He had needed that anger to keep him moving when he wanted to give up, but anger was blindness as much as strength. 

Knights, lords, and pretenders. Were they really not as synonymous as Raviathan had always assumed? Ser Finnian’s code was bound to his identity, as much as a spirit to the body it inhabited. William didn't pretend to live by a code at all. The man was what he was, without apology. As much as Raviathan detested what William had done, that shem had no pretensions of being someone different. The only pretender in this room was a little dock worker who thought he was a Grey Warden. 

"Ser Finnian? If you don't mind, I have some questions."

"Certainly, Warden. How may I be of service?" The knight regarded him with polite interest.

Raviathan paused. Warden. He was still called Warden. That threw him as much as the knight's respect. Even his phrasing, 'how may I be of service’, struck Raviathan. "Uh. Well, um, what can you tell me of Lord William?"

"I have met the man but a few times, so I do not know much beyond reputation. He was freeborn, but fostered at Gwaren as reward for some service, marshaling the town against a hostile neighbor, if memory serves. He was trained and awarded lordship and lands upon return. He is known for having a good reputation with the Dalish, who camp near here. How he gained their trust enough to negotiate with them, I do not know. My own opinion is that he is on the rough side but loyal to his people. Crafty." 

Finnian hesitated. "I do not know if I am surprised by this incident or not. He has never been one for the finer points of noble behavior. Lord William does what he thinks needs to be done without regard for the consequences, but he has a reputation for upholding the rights of elves."

"What will happen? To William and Molly?"

"The bann will decide, of course. Anything I say is mere supposition. Based on what I know of Bann Harrin, Molly will need to plead her case, but since she was not an active participant, she will be left alone. Same with Sean. Could be they will have time added to their indenture. The villagers here knew William was involved; however, their silence on this matter will mean censure for the village. Additional taxes, or, more likely, more time added to their yearly work on Harrin's farms. Then, of course, the penalty for aiding in an attack on a Grey Warden who made his identity known is a serious offense.”

Finnian pursed his lips as he thought. “William is a trickier case for me to predict. Bann Harrin likes William—has as let the man get away with more than most would have in the same circumstances, but with the King's favor of the Grey Wardens, this may be a slight of honor that cannot be so easily forgiven. Especially since he has added to his offenses."

"Added how?" Raviathan asked.

"To your person," Finnian answered in surprise. "You said he propositioned you."

Raviathan's brow knit as he considered. "But if Molly and Sean had nothing to do with it, why will they be punished?"

"They may not have known, but that does not excuse they have a part in this crime."

"That doesn't seem fair. Could I… I don't know. Write a letter on their behalf? Or something?"

Finnian gave him a nod. "A plea from the injured party would help their case."

Raviathan pondered the knight's speech. He could guess well enough at the man's meaning, but the knight's jargon left him wondering about the codes magistrates used. "I'm not sure how to phrase such a letter."

"I would assist you," Finnian offered, his gentle voice becoming softer. "With the storm, we will need to stay the eve, so we could do this at your convenience."

"Okay, then."

"Then we are settled. Your day must have been trying, indeed. I would not delay you from your meal. At your convenience, we shall draft a letter and finish any remaining business. "

Duncan gave Finnian a nod then led Raviathan to their waiting meal. "This day's been quite the adventure for you." Duncan sounded angry, though he kept it in check.

They found a booth in a dark corner, giving them privacy. Raviathan didn't say anything as he stared at the pastry mold that was his supper. Instead of eating, he put his hands in his lap, head bowed, ready for his lecture.

"Eat up." Duncan already had the wolf's share of the buttered parsnips, mashed turnips, and rye bread.

"Are you mad at me?"

"Not mad." He broke his own pastry mold to allow steam to escape. Raviathan was surprised that someone with his appetite had waited. "Not at you anyway. But we can't have this anymore. Every inn we've been to, there's been some sort of trouble. Tamriel's had problems, but nothing like this."

"Tamriel?"

"Our other elven Warden."

There was another elf? "Why didn't you tell me there was another elf?"

"Does it matter? A Warden is a Warden." Duncan glanced at him, a sly glint in his gaze.

A little tease, but it was enough to let Raviathan know he wasn't in trouble. "Ha ha." Tension eased from his shoulders now that his worries were over. Inside the mold was a stuffed pike, a rare meal served to those who could afford such luxuries. Spiced apple cider graced Raviathan's meal instead of water. Why had Duncan decided on such a costly meal?

The worries that shem lord instilled left. Duncan wasn't mad, but more importantly, Raviathan knew Duncan was nothing like William. That 'lord's' words didn't have any weight over him, not anymore. "I don't know what to say, Duncan. I don't know how I could have prevented anything that happened today other than make sure I have an escort."

"That won't do. Today has been unusual, to be sure, but every inn? How did you get around Denerim?"

"Elves travel in groups. Especially after Arl Urien left with most of his guards. I got picked on outside of the alienage. Daily at the docks." Raviathan chewed his lower lip. "I think… I'm not sure, but I think since there were more elves in Denerim, I wasn't so exotic. Since we've left Denerim, I haven't seen many elves. A few working in a field, but none in a town. What's Tamriel like?"

"He’s from a hamlet near Gwaren. He's had a hard life, so he keeps to himself. I can guess at bits, but as a matter of courtesy, Wardens don't pry into each other’s pasts. Why would you be more of a target if there are fewer elves?"

Raviathan gave a one shouldered shrug that was more casual than he felt. Though he kept his eyes on his food, he could feel Duncan watching him, waiting. Sighing, Raviathan lowered his fork. "Duncan, I don't know much beyond my alienage. This… this whole world… it's like going to a different country. All the rules are different. What I know is that if an elf isn't living in an alienage or isn't living with a noble family as part of their work, they're a whore. Most elves who lived outside the alienage only did so because they were kicked out. There might be some way for them to eke out a living, but most became whores. That's how most humans came in contact with elves in a city, so when we were outside the alienage, that's what we were assumed to be. Not always, but that was pretty common. That… that man, William." Raviathan's cheeks felt hot. "He'd been with an elf before. The things he said… I don't know who he's been with, or how. But I've no doubt there are elves around here who are being used."

"That would explain why you've been such a target, but we still need to find some strategies to minimize the danger you keep finding yourself in."

Raviathan nibbled at his lip. "What about something official to show I have rank? Like a Grey Warden badge?"

Duncan paused to look the elf over. The boy's cloak and blanket turned poncho hid his weapons while making him appear more like a passing laborer than a warrior. "When we have time, perhaps at Ostagar, we'll get you some true fitted armor. With a seal." Duncan's smile flashed. "You'll have to learn how to mingle among the nobles and knights."

Raviathan snorted. He nibbled his lip before he broached the next subject. "Duncan. Did you know Solyn? My aunt?"

"Adaia's sister? I never met her, but Adaia spoke of her once. If memory serves, Valendrian said she was killed."

"Do you know how?"

"I'm sure Valendrian said, but I don't remember."

With a quick glimpse around the room to make sure his words would only be between them, Raviathan said, "She was murdered. Valendrian organized searches when she disappeared. It took a week to find her. Duncan, you've seen how I've been treated outside the alienage. You know elves are a target. My people may not be slaves anymore, but that mentality, that we're less than humans, is still pervasive. Even in Ferelden. After she died, my skill as a physician was kept secret. Thing is, everyone knew I had been her apprentice. They had already seen me working, knew what I was capable of. But we all sort of knew to keep it quiet."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because… because we need to take precautions. Duncan, if you still want me as a Warden, I'll serve. I've no complaints about that. But… well, how am I going to be of use? You said it yourself. I seem to get in danger all the damn time."

A warm hand squeezed his shoulder, and Raviathan felt his eyes prick with tears. Duncan's voice, low and calm, was as comforting as Nesiara's embrace. "Outfitting you as a Grey Warden will help. You're right about that. Rav, you just need time. I've mentored many Warden recruits over the years. In a few months, a year at most, you'll see."

Raviathan took Duncan's hand in both of his, squeezing tightly. He couldn't keep his eyes on anything but the old warrior's calloused hand. The early stages of arthritis knotted his joints. Careworn hands. Strong. "Duncan, she was raped. They," Raviathan took a deep breath, "they used a knife. When I found her… Maker. It was one of the worst moments of my life. Dried blood covered her thighs. She was so dignified. Educated. Patient. The way she held herself… she was regal. They left her naked, hidden under garbage. I found her because it was summer. She'd been left there for a week. The only reason I found her was because… because she started… to rot." Raviathan stopped when a sob jerked his chest. "She didn't deserve that. Be bruised. Humiliated. Broken."

"Why?" Duncan's voice was a calm whisper. "Why did they do that? Do you know who?"

"We think…" Raviathan bit his lips. He squirmed not able to look at anything for long. "She had human patients. We think one of them turned her in. Templars were seen near where I found her body. The day she disappeared."

"Templars? Rav, you can't think…"

"What?" His head shot up, hands tight enough that Duncan winced in his grip. "That a single elf on their own isn't a target?"

Duncan gently loosened Raviathan's grip. "I don't want to make light of this. I can see how painful telling me about her is, but templars don't chase down physicians."

As Raviathan expected, Duncan wouldn't believe him, even with the story. "Duncan, please. I saw what they did to her. You saw, you know, what happened at the alienage. What happened to me today. Elves just don't have the same rights. And templars aren't always reasonable." Raviathan took a breath to steady himself. "They hear the barest rumor of an apostate, and that person disappears." He forced himself to keep Duncan's gaze. "Please? Please just think about what I've said? This… this whole world. It's a different place for me than it is for you. I need you to try and understand that."

Though Duncan didn't look convinced, Raviathan could see he was at least considering. That shem lord was an idiot. Screw him. Duncan was a good man.

"Finish your meal, then go get cleaned up. It's been a hard day for you. We'll talk more of this later, when you're not so exhausted, and when things aren't so close to the surface."

"You'll think about what I've said?"

"Yes." Duncan squeezed his hands back for emphasis.

Taking a deep breath, Raviathan forced himself to calm. Food took the edge off his exhaustion. Heat from the bath eased the tension that had been making his shoulders ache. He meditated in the bath, going through mental exercises so that he could distance himself from the day, from the memories of Solyn.

"Ser?"

As Raviathan left the bathing room, a serving girl interrupted his reverie. He raised his eyebrows in polite interest.

"Wanted to say sorry. When we found out William had taken you… Well, Billy said it was for a healing. We knew you'd be safe if that's what he'd taken you for. But if Finnian went for you… Couldn't risk one of our countrymen. Maker's breath, but we could sorely use your skills. But promise, we didn't think you'd be in any real danger."

Raviathan didn't have anything to say in response. He murmured acknowledgment but otherwise remained silent.

"Your… ah, Commander, he was off finding a place for you to train. When he came back, found out what happened… Ah. Just… sorry."

Why was the girl so nervous? "I'm not happy about it, but I appreciate your apology."

"Ah," the girl relaxed. "I'm Selice," she said but it sounded more like a question the way she inflected her name. "Innkeeper is my father. If… if you're willing… many folks have come by asking for you."

"Asking for me?" What was it now? Did he and Duncan have to sneak away in the night?

"Just… if… well, your Commander said you'd be here another day. Would… well, would you be willing to see to them?"

"As a physician? I… need to talk to Duncan." Then Raviathan thought about Old Beth. "No, I don't. I'll see to anyone who wants to come. Whether they have coin for my services or not."

Her smile, genuine and relieved, brought charm to an otherwise plain face. The image of her smile remained with Raviathan when he returned to the main room. Just a little courtesy was all he asked for.

"You are looking much better, Warden," Finnian greeted him as Raviathan sat at his table. The knight put aside the report he had been working on, then brought out a fresh vellum for Raviathan. The two worked on the letter, Finnian patiently explaining all the legal jargon, which frustrated Raviathan as much as fascinated him. 

"What is the purpose of using language that's so far beyond how people speak? Seems like it's meant to befuddle anyone who seeks justice at court."

"A fair assessment," Finnian said with a smile. "At times the terminology is confusing, but there are reasons for everything. Legal language is coded because the law demands precision. A balance must be made between writing a law that is defined enough that it is clear, while remaining universal so as to be applicable to many cases."

Raviathan scanned the report of the incident, testing his new understanding of legal protocols, asking when he needed clarification. While he didn't understand every word, and some terms took him a few seconds to recall, the report wasn't the mystery it would have been an hour ago. "Finnian, why did you believe me?"

"Should I not have?" Finnian asked, his interest piqued.

"I spoke the truth, but how did you know?"

"You are a Grey Warden. Your word has value."

"Nobles are supposed to have value, but they lie. Hide their true fortunes or dalliances."

"True," Finnian said, stretching the word out. "However, when you recounted the chase, even including the rather inglorious moments," Finnian smiled to remove any sting from his words, "the details matched what I had already learned from the townsfolk."

"Did William come back to the village?"

"I did not see him."

"He said Duncan was upset."

Though Finnian kept his features carefully under control, Raviathan saw humor dance beneath the knight's calm surface. "'Upset' is a bit of an understatement. I will say I am glad the man was not out for my head."

"What did he do?"

A smile touched Finnian's eyes, though his mouth remained straight. "When I had arrived, with haste mind you, based on the panicked tales of a few villagers, your Commander had taken three of the men who attacked you hostage, their lives forfeit if any harm befell you. The others he let go in order to take that message to William."

Duncan did that? Raviathan held his breath, fortifying himself before he spoke. "I want to retract my accusation that William propositioned me."

"Ser?"

"He's a bully. He was needlessly cruel. But, upon reflection, I think he was only trying to get a rise out of me."

"Perhaps," Finnian prompted gently, "if you could give me some specifics?"

"Told me I was a cock rider. That all elves are. He joked that he didn't want to let me go."

"I admit I'm surprised that he would say such things about you or your people considering his relations with the Dalish, and yet I am not surprised considering his person." Finnian considered. "Then the charge should change to conduct unbecoming of a lord."

"That's a crime?"

"Oh, yes. Not one that is enforced as much as it should be, but a crime nonetheless."

Raviathan bit his lips. "Would you treat me with the same respect if I were not a Warden recruit?"

Again, Finnian took his time to consider. He spoke carefully, "You have been often wronged, so I understand your distrust. Many of the manners Fereldan lords have are a holdover from the Orlesian indoctrination during the occupation. In Orlais, respect is only required of those of equal station or above. This attitude has unfortunately affected a fair number. Personally, I find such affectations sycophantic, a degradation that weakens the Ferelden spirit. That being said, while I have not always behaved as well as I should, I strive to uphold the honor that speaks true to this nation's history. You are as much my countryman as any other."

"That's the reason for your code?"

"From a purely idealistic standpoint, yes. And that is all that need be required for a man's honor. However, in my experience, when I treat people with respect, I find there are many more people who are deserving of that respect. There will always be the brutish, the ignorant, the ingrate, the exploitative. Should I let such baseness change who I am, make me deny what I hold as true? Or shall I say I require more of myself, that honoring the dignity of another person is a strength?"

"The world is not so easy as that. I will not spare the feelings of a person who tries to do me harm."

"Respect is not about apologizing to the man trying to remove your head. It is also not allowing yourself to be used. Respecting another is about retaining your own integrity in the face of those who would rob you of it."

"You… have an interesting code, Ser Finnian. I'm not sure if it's practical, or if I agree with it, but I'm grateful that people like you exist. I will think on what you said."

Finnian stood with Raviathan and offered his hand. "An honor to meet you, Warden. May the Maker watch over you."

"Maker watch over us all." Raviathan shook the knight's hand then left the common room. Around Finnian, such a code seemed possible to live by. Not easy, but possible. The code was all the more valuable because holding to such mores required sacrifice. Finnian must have struggled, been tested over the years, yet he carried himself with an effortless grace. Was binding oneself to such principles ultimately limiting or freeing?

Deep in thought, Raviathan didn't notice the hall was occupied until he bumped into a man passing him. Realizing who it was, Raviathan caught the young knight by the elbow. "You. I want to speak with you." The knight glanced at him distrustfully. "You owe me," Raviathan pressed.

"Just talk?"

What else would he want? At Raviathan's nod, the knight looked about to make sure no one saw them, then the two ducked into a store room.

"What is it then?"

"Your name?"

The knight crossed his arms, the metal of his armor screeching as it rubbed. Reluctantly, he said, "Gage."

"You've been with elves?" The knight turned to leave, but Raviathan grabbed his elbow again. "Look. I've got men coming after me, left and right, and I need to learn how to defend myself. Or better yet, make them stop before they start. To do that, I need to understand."

"I don't need more trouble from my lord."

"This is just between us. Promise."

Gage bent his head down. "Alright," he said quietly. "Yeah."

Raviathan leaned against one wall, and Gage followed suit. "Were you always attracted to elves?"

"Naw. Well, your women, yes."

"So… what changed?"

Gage rubbed his jaw, unable to return Raviathan's gaze. "My friends and I were celebrating. They, um… we went to a house. I was never interested in men. My… my friend kept going on about elven men. Said they were like nothing else. He kept talking, and talking. He paid. So… I tried it out. You know? I mean, squires don't earn much, and, well, he'd be the only one who knew what I'd be doing. So, why not? After that… just changed the way I thought. When I've got a choice, and no one knows…" Gage glanced up, a quick shift before looking back down at the floor. "What I said, I didn't mean. Knew I was being rude. Don't even know why I said it. Knew Ser Finnian would be upset. Just…" he sighed. "Ah, Maker." 

“Do you enjoy human men?”

“Tried it a few times. Not the same. Elves just… feel better. Clean. Smell nicer. More, um, active, you know?”

While prostitutes needed men like this for their survival, Raviathan wanted to hit him. "Can't you at least be kind to them?"

"I've never hurt anyone," Gage said, straightening. "Not, er, them anyway."

Though he wanted to lecture the shem, there wasn't much point. Such was the way of the world. "Just… just remember that they wouldn't be there if they had a choice. Least you can do is be respectful for what you're getting out of it."

Silence.

Raviathan bit his lips as he thought. "So then. What would you recommend I do to keep men from coming after me?"

Now it was Gage's turn to look thoughtful. "Don't know, really. Ah, I don't mean no offense here. Really, I don't. But you just look… ripe."

Ripe? Raviathan felt his cheeks warm. "Could you be more specific, please?"

Gage flushed. "Ah… I don't know. Ready."

Raviathan squirmed. He had asked, knew he was responsible because he had asked, but he hadn't been prepared for the embarrassment the knight's answers would bring. He took a few slow, steadying breaths. His emotions still boiled, like rushing water under a thin ice sheet, but he could retain control for now. "What would make me look less ready?"

"I… I don't rightly know. Mm. Maybe look a little tougher? Wear your weapons where they can be seen? Don't know if that would help. Some would take that as invitation to knock you down a bit. Maybe… maybe be colder?"

That took Raviathan a minute. Gage hadn't given him a solution, but he did make Raviathan review how he would appear to someone else. He thought of the women he had known, what made one look easy, another a challenge, and what turned him off. If a prostitute had triggered this man's libido, then he was attracted to elves who had been broken down, were cast out and alone. Women who were damaged on the inside left Raviathan cold, but that didn't hold true for other men, especially shems. If he thought like a predator, damaged meant easy. That attitude was repugnant in the callousness it required, but then these were shems.

Maker knew he had been full of tears lately. His emotions were always close to the surface. That reinforced everything he felt about Duncan. Duncan had never taken advantage of his vulnerability. Had only tried to help see him through his pain.

Murmuring his thanks, Raviathan started to leave only to find the knight's hand on his arm. At the glare Raviathan shot him, Gage retracted his arm as if he had grabbed a hot potato. "I… uh. I just wanted to say sorry. For what I said. Before."

Raviathan softened, gave him a nod to show acceptance, and returned to his room. Duncan was already dressed for sleep, thumbing idly through one of Raviathan's books. When ready, Duncan blew out the candle and the two settled into bed. Raviathan curled up next to Duncan, his head resting on the old warrior's shoulder.

"Rav?"

"Night, Duncan." Raviathan smiled at Duncan's awkwardness. "Sleep well."


	23. Strange Bedfellows – One’s Purpose

The rain continued as unrelenting as it had been the day before. The land was soaking in much of the excess water, the nearby river swelling higher along the banks. Duncan sat in the corner of the bathing room, now Raviathan's clinic, and tended to some basic repairs of his armor, sharpened weapons, and drafted a letter for the Wardens about his newest recruit.

One by one or in families, people came with all sorts of issues, some of which Duncan was embarrassed to hear: persistent coughs, aching joints, rashes, chest aches, back pain, all sorts of odd skin issues, foot disease, digestive problems, excessive flatulence, injuries that had gone untreated without a physician, one man with a swollen leg, ulcers, infections, a waif of a girl who was anemic, pregnant women who wanted to make sure their baby was healthy and if he could tell what sex it would be, couples who were trying to get pregnant, sex diseases, and on it went. It seemed like everyone in a ten mile radius had been willing to trudge through the rain while there was a physician available.

Watching Raviathan work had been an education unto itself. When a family came in, Raviathan invariably addressed the mother who would detail every symptom of her husband and children while the others stayed quiet and compliant. Three times Raviathan had to send the inn's servant boys to Old Beth to restock items. Selice, the innkeeper's daughter, kept the line of people organized and made sure Raviathan had plenty of hot water. On top of crafting various medicines, the elf needed a constant supply of hot water for washing his hands. If Duncan had ever wanted to see a display of his abilities, this was it. Solyn must have been a tremendous healer to pass on all that skill. The boy was a wonder.

Most of the villagers ignored Duncan, or pretended to. No one questioned his right to be there. In return, Duncan tried to appear busy in order to give them some illusion of privacy. They may have been nervous, but what put people most at ease was the efficient competence that Raviathan projected. He wasn't at all cold, but there was a briskness to his manner that cut through his patients' modesty.

Maker, please let this boy live, Duncan prayed as he surreptitiously watched Raviathan tend to a child with breathing problems. A healer of his skill was invaluable and almost made up for the loss of a mage. Raviathan wrote down two recipes for the mother, a salve to rub on the child's chest at night and a twice daily tea to use for a month then as needed when the problem returned. He ended the session with the good news that most children grew out of such problems by young adulthood.

Raviathan was just finishing up, cleaning the table with a formula of water and spirits as he did after each patient, when there was a commotion outside the door. Duncan stood up and kept his weapons near but did not draw them. A boy, black hair contrasting against his pale face, flung open the door. He looked between Duncan and Raviathan. "We heard there was a physician here."

"What is it?" Raviathan asked in a commanding voice.

The boy hesitated only a moment as he looked the elf up and down. "My brother. He had a broken leg, but it's gotten all worse." 

"Where is he?" Raviathan asked.

"My parents are bringing him. They should be here soon, but they wanted me to make sure you was here."

"What are his symptoms?"

"Um. His leg is hot. Says it hurts."

"Anything else?"

"Um. He sweats a lot, but he's cold. Sort of shaky. And he sleeps all the time. Even when he's awake he can't do anything."

"Tell your parents to bring him straight in," Raviathan said. The boy left without another word. "Selice," Raviathan called to the innkeeper's daughter. "The boy with the broken leg comes in next."

"Yes, ser," she called through the open door. There were mumblings from the other patients concerned for the child. Raviathan prepared his table, giving it a fresh wash and taking out instruments that had cooled after being steamed. These he placed on a tray that he had insisted be cleaned with boiling water. Though Duncan kept his eyes on the sword he was sharpening, he was intensely curious.

The exterior door banged, and a man and woman entered with care, carrying their son in a sling made by their arms. Both boys took after their father with his coloration and sharp cheek bones. Raviathan said, "Bring him here. On the table."

Words of encouragement from the other patients followed the family. The injured boy was near a man grown, his pale skin slick with rain and sweat. The mother and father were exhausted from the trip. The father started when he saw Raviathan. "He's so young," the father whispered.

With their help, Raviathan removed the boy's pants. The splint was roughly made of wood strips banded tightly together. Raviathan removed the splint with practiced efficiency. The boy's leg was swollen with an angry, red patch around a scar in the lower half of his thigh. Raviathan said, "I was told he broke his leg. The bone went through the skin?"

"Yes, ser," the mother said. "Kelly here was working the field setting up water ways. ‘Cause of the drought and all. The ox spooked, and he got caught in the trowel. Broke his leg right clean it did. He was screaming so, holding his leg. I could see the bone. My father said that was good that it was a clean break. That it would heal better."

"How long ago?"

"Um," the mother said. "Six weeks?"

Raviathan said, "Tell me when it hurts." He touched the swollen area, probing various spots, and the boy hissed in pain. Raviathan felt the boy's forehead and kept his hand there. "He's been tired lately?"

"Oh yes, ser. Sleeps most of the day, he does," the mother said anxiously.

"Your son said he has chills and that his leg hurts him?" Raviathan asked.

"Yes," the mother said, both parents looking between Raviathan and their son. Duncan pitied them. They were both wet to the bone and sick with worry. "He's been saying his bone hurts. Says it over and over and we've told him not to move, we did, but he can't stop worming about so."

Coming to a conclusion, Raviathan took his hand from the frightened boy's head. "The wound is infected. I'm going to give him medicine to make him sleep then operate. How good a cook are you?"

Startled, the mother said, "Eh? Well enough, I suppose."

"Can you follow a detailed recipe?" Raviathan asked sharply as he continued a cursory examination of the boy's leg. "Measure exact amounts?"

"Yes. I can do that."

"Please, ser," the father said. He was clutching his hat in his hand, wringing the old leather to a shapeless mass. "Will he loose his leg?"

The already pale boy went bone white. "No." He pushed away on the table, turning from his father to the elf. "No father, please. Please, I don't want to lose my leg."

"Quiet," Raviathan said, not unkindly. "I have a recipe for a very powerful medicine, but it must be mixed exactly and given to him twice a day for six weeks. Each batch needs to be prepared fresh each day, and it might get expensive."

"Expensive?" the father asked.

"I think baccas gum is the most expensive ingredient. Can you afford three pints?"

"We have a tree," the mother said, seizing on new hope. "We'll cut down the whole thing if we have to."

"I'll do my best to save his leg," Raviathan said, "but you must commit to this potion for six weeks. No less. Even one day, and the infection can come back. It doesn't matter how healthy he seems. You must promise, six full weeks."

"I swear by the Maker," the mother said.

"If I can save your leg," Raviathan said turning to the boy, "you have to make the same promise. Six weeks, twice a day, not one day less. No complaints or trying to get out of it. If you don't take the potion, you will lose your leg."

"I promise, ser," the boy said, desperation and hope mingling in his feverish face. "Swear by the Maker."

Raviathan nodded once and went to his kit to begin mixing a potion. "Go sit outside," he said to the parents without looking at them. "This room needs to be as clean as possible, so don't let anyone in. I'll let you know as soon as I can. Duncan, I need you to guard the door as well."

For the first time the parents gave Duncan more than a cursory glance. "As you say," Duncan replied gravely and gathered his things. 

The boy turned to his parents, looking lost, and the mother lifted her chin and squared her shoulders to encourage her son. He nodded, still looking afraid but working to master it. "I won't lose my leg?"

"I'll do my best," Raviathan replied. "Here. Drink this. It'll taste horrible, so get it over as fast as you can. Then lie back."

The boy did as he was told and gagged on the potion. "Maker's breath. What was that?"

"Something to make you sleep. Lie back," Raviathan said gently.

Duncan and the parents left the room.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Hours turned by as the injured boy's parents sat or paced. Selice kept bring them fresh tea that went untouched. Other patients who lingered at the inn spoke to them. "Finest healer I ever saw. Really. Much better than Old Beth was in her prime."

"Your boy will be alright," a woman said, followed by some story meant to be comforting.

When Raviathan, drooping with exhaustion, came out, both parents jumped to their feet. A tea cup fell, rattling on the floor. He raised a hand for them to sit. "Kelly, you said his name was?"

The mother nodded. She clutched her husband's hand, her knuckles white.

"The operation was successful," Raviathan said, sitting next to them. "An infection settled inside his broken bone. I had to open his leg up, open his bone to remove the infection and puss. I cleaned out everything, stitched him back together. He's sleeping now, will be for another hour. I'm going to recommend he stay here for a week. When you do move him back home, keep his leg up and immobile. Use a cart and drive slow. Here are the recipes." He handed her two folded papers. "One for pain, though he shouldn't have much of that, one to make sure the infection doesn't come back."

"Twice a day. Six weeks. Promise, ser." The mother took the papers with numb fingers. The father put his head down, kissed his wife's hand, and sat very still.

"Any questions?" Raviathan asked.

The mother shook her head. "Maker bless you, ser. Maker smiled the day you came here."

Startled, Raviathan patted her shoulder. "Let him sleep. You can see him in an hour. I gave him a heavy dose of pain killer, so he'll be dazed."

She nodded, tears welling.

Catching Duncan's eye, Raviathan left with him to the main room. He stretched his neck and arms, flexed his shoulders trying to get rid of the tension that had built up.

"I have some letters that need to be sent off. I trust you'll do your utmost to stay out of trouble while I'm away?"

Raviathan gave him an ironic grin. "I think I've got a village full of defenders now."

Duncan squeezed his shoulder and left. Raviathan sank into a booth, still trying to work out his tired muscles. Selice stopped by with a small platter of food, thick butternut squash soup with cream and a sandwich with thin slices of beef. "Missed the luncheon, but cook made you something special for when you were ready."

"Thanks," Raviathan said, his eyebrows raised at the quality of his meal.

"My father has a black lager he wanted to open for you, but I said you didn't drink." Selice put a tankard of warm spiced apple cider before him.

"Uh, thanks."

As soon as Selice bounced away, a boy slid into Raviathan's booth. The elf raised an eyebrow at Billy. "How's your sister?"

"Stopped crying so much. Mama said it was the Maker's will you came here."

Maker's will I almost get strung up then kidnapped? "That's nice of her." Raviathan took a bite out of his sandwich. The sharp heat of horseradish filled Raviathan's nose for an instant followed by the tangy flavor of an unfamiliar white sauce. The cook had gone all out. Raviathan made a mental note to talk to him again before they left.

"Your food smells good."

"It is."

"Are you going to stay long?"

"No. I have to go south to the war."

"So you won't stay?"

"Nope."

"We need a healer."

"The soldiers need healing too. If they fall, the darkspawn will come north."

"I thought darkspawn were all gone."

"Well, there's some left in the south. The King is there, fighting them. That's how important the war is."

The boy scratched his cheek then fidgeted. Billy's blue eyes stood out large and innocent from a dirty face. "You didn't like it when mama called you knife ears."

"No, I didn't."

"Why not?"

"It's rude."

"Why? You've got pointed ears."

"Knife ears isn't about having pointed ears." With reluctance, Raviathan put down his sandwich to turn to the child. "Did you know that elves were slaves for a thousand years?" Billy shook his head no, his eyes growing wider. "We lost our language, our stories, our culture. We were beaten, hurt, had our children sold never to see them again, were slaughtered for blood mages to gain power. Terrible things happened to my people during those long years. We've never been the same after that. We fought with Andraste for our freedom, but the slavery of my people still continues in Tevinter. After my people were freed, humans didn't want us to be equal. Do you know how farmers marked their animals? They brand ox and cattle or cut a pig's ears?"

Billy nodded.

"The same was done with elves. 'Knife ears' comes from 'take a knife to their ears'. As slaves, our ears were marked. Date of birth, lineage, the house we were born to. Even in free lands, when humans thought elves were getting uppity or wanting too much, they would cut or dock an elf's ears to remind us we were slaves, that we're still beneath humans. Calling one of my people 'knife ears' is saying our ears should be cut, that we're just like animals."

Billy picked at his lip, and Raviathan went back to his sandwich. Finally, the child said, "Mama didn't mean anything wrong. She likes you."

A shred of bitterness left Raviathan. "It's a serious insult. You know not to call us that anymore?" Billy nodded. "Not even when you're mad?" Billy nodded again with a very serious expression on his young face. "Would you like part of my sandwich?" A third nod. Raviathan cut off the last third and handed it over. He put the bowl of soup between them so they could both dip their sandwiches into it.

"You're really pretty."

"Thanks."

"Prettier than any of the girls here."

Raviathan hesitated a second before taking his next bite.

"Are all elves so pretty?"

"Some are," Raviathan said through a mouthful of food. The boy seemed too young to have a crush, but what did he know about humans? One lecture was enough, so Raviathan let the 'pretty' remark go. "Eat your food."

Billy seemed content to stare at him, so Raviathan finished his lunch in silence. The respite was welcome after seeing to all the villagers. Raviathan couldn’t understand why he was so tired. Working at the docks or the miles of walking over the last days had used far more energy. Today he had stayed in one room, yet he was ready to do nothing more than sit by the fire and read until bed. 

Meal finished, Raviathan returned to a hallway of ready patients. Hours passed as the injured, the sickly, and the worried paraded in and out. When the last man left, after shaking Raviathan’s hand hard enough to pull it off, the elf slumped against the wall next to the fire. Duncan poked his head in, spied the elf, and grinned. “Come along. Dinner is waiting.” 

With more effort than he cared to admit, Raviathan hauled himself up and followed the warrior. Again, the chef had a special meal planned for them. Delectable sweetbreads in a port wine sauce with buttery vegetables and fresh white bread that made Raviathan think of his grandmother. 

Duncan broached the subject he had been thinking about since the previous evening. “Why was it so uncomfortable for you to share a bed when we were first travelling? It’s a common enough practice, and we have to share tents and the like often.” 

The elf’s flashing eyes regarded him for a moment. Elves had a reputation for having unreadable eyes, which Duncan was reminded of with this Raviathan’s steady gaze. They held an otherworldly beauty, and he could understand the stronger, single emotions like rage, but the more subtle aspects escaped him. It wasn’t a lack of emotion, but the expression in elven eyes was different from a human. Raviathan asked, “You mean, humans do that a lot?” 

“Certainly. The nobles are exceptions, not the rule. From what I understand from Valendrian, most elves live in one room apartments. It can’t be that unusual.” 

The elf seemed startled by the idea that humans had different customs about sleeping. “Well, sharing a room is different. I didn’t mind that. But… sleeping with someone… that’s intimate.” 

“But it isn’t sex.” 

“No,” the elf admitted, as if considering how to explain. “With sex, you don’t have to care for someone. Sometimes it’s just a physical release. And random.” He squirmed. “Like with prostitutes. Sex is better when it’s with someone you care about, of course, but that isn’t a requirement. Elves only sleep with someone we’re very close to.” 

Duncan frowned as he thought. “So you wouldn’t even sleep next to someone for warmth or because there isn’t enough room?” 

Raviathan shook his head. “Even if you have eight to an apartment, everyone has their space. Couples and siblings sleep together, so space isn’t that much an issue. I didn’t mind sleeping next to my cousins or aunt because I love them. It’s a mark of trust and affection to do that. Never with a stranger, though. If it came to sharing a small tent or sleep outside in the rain, I’d sleep outside.” 

“You know,” Duncan said, hoping to clarify so the elf wouldn’t be confused in the future, “we use the terms sleep with and sex interchangeably. Sex is considered a more intimate act though there are exceptions.” 

A far off look came into Raviathan’s face as he tried to digest that bit of information. “That seems so strange. You sleep together easily, and yet the terms are one and the same. How can you tell what someone is asking for?” 

Duncan chuckled. “If you ask someone to sleep with you, it’s usually sex. Otherwise it’s ‘sharing’ a floor space, tent, or bed.” This explained some of Tamriel’s behavior. If only the other elf had been open enough to say just this, a lot of confusion and unintentional slights would have been avoided. Only a moment’s time, and all those stupid misunderstandings the rest of the Wardens had about Tamriel and vice-versa could have been eliminated. “Thank you for explaining that to me.” The elf nodded with his mouth full of potatoes and carrots. “Are you getting use to the idea of sleeping with others? Like with us?” 

Suddenly shy, the elf looked down, concentrating over much on his dinner. He was hunched in again, and Duncan thought he wouldn’t answer when Raviathan admitted very quietly, “You’re not a stranger. I… I trust you.” 

Realization settled into Duncan with those little words that said so much more. He felt his throat constrict and took a swallow of ale to ease it. The elf had been showing him a deep trust and respect, and he hadn’t even realized it. Was it all elves, or just this one who had such delicate emotional lives? Valendrian had said Raviathan showed a heightened sensitivity. That was true, but Tamriel’s behavior was much clearer now that he learned just this one aspect of elven culture. It wasn’t just this elf’s sensitivity. 

Raviathan was a bigger responsibility than Duncan had realized, but one that came with rewards as well. Alistair had made him feel that way shortly after he had conscripted the young man. The young, despondent templar had a desperate need for a father figure, and Duncan knew the boy had attached to him quickly, more than he had the rest of the Wardens. There had been only a handful Duncan had confessed his nightmares to and what it meant. Alistair, despite being the most junior member, had been one of them. 

Maybe he was getting overly sentimental in his final days, but Alistair and now Raviathan’s affection touched him. He knew he shouldn’t allow it. They would be mourning him all too soon, and if he wasn’t careful it could show favoritism which could breed resentment from the others. Perhaps it was because he didn’t have that much time left that he indulged in these relationships. They made him feel that his life had been worthy. After a long life of duty, it was a comfort that he was cared for. 

That night as the two got ready for bed, Duncan made a decision. For whatever time he had left, Raviathan would bunk with him. He would have to talk to the other Wardens, and there might be some rumors about their relationship, but if he explained it carefully, how the boy helped keep the nightmares at bay, it might not be an issue for Raviathan when he was on his own with the Wardens. Duncan realized he was probably fooling himself, but now that he was nearing the end, he didn’t care. Duncan got into the cold bed with the elf already there. The eyes flashed in the near darkness as they watched Duncan. The two hadn’t said a word since Raviathan’s confession. 

In the short visits he had at the alienage and among the Dalish, he had noticed the easy affection elves shared with each other. They were very physical with many casual touches cementing emotional bonds. It would be a disaster if he misinterpreted the elf, but taking a chance, Duncan moved close to Raviathan in the bed. The eyes flashed as the elf shifted. With a small sigh of relief that he hadn’t misjudged, Duncan felt the elf snuggle into the crook of his arm, using his chest as a pillow with an arm slung over his chest. Raviathan’s weight was surprisingly light. “Good night, Rav.” 

“Night, Duncan,” he said softly back. 

The Archdemon did not intrude into his dreams. 

 

~o~O~o~

 

“Rav,” Duncan started the next morning as they walked next to a lake swollen from the recent rains. “I want you to be patient with the other Wardens. I’ve come to realize our cultures are quite different, and they need time to understand that. If they say something, don’t immediately take offense and be willing to explain offenses.” 

“I’ll try,” Raviathan said, annoyed. “But if they call me knife ears…” 

Duncan chuckled. He realized he did that a lot around the elf. “Then you have my permission to stand up for yourself. But you’ve seen how we’ve had misunderstandings. The Grey Wardens won’t look down on you for being an elf, but sometimes it’s easy to say the wrong thing without meaning to or understanding why it’s wrong.” 

Raviathan didn’t say anything. In truth he had known very few shems. Yesterday, not one of those villagers had said a single thing about him being an elf. Obviously they shouldn’t insult the man they were looking to for healing, but it had been something of an experience. He had thought shems were callous and lacked any normal sense of empathy, but after he looked at the worried parents, especially the mother and father who had carried their sick boy in, he realized shems were more complex than he gave them credit for. They could care just as deeply, but those emotions were hidden. There was still a selfishness many of them had, and they could be unconscionably cruel, but there were redeeming aspects. 

Instead of answering, he looked out over the eastern tendril of a lake. The morning sun glinted off the cloudy grey lake water. Ice rimmed the edge or the lake, the center rippling from the wind. Low hills squatted on the northern side, veiled behind the early fog. Shades of blue and a touch of pink from the sun gave depth and warmed the view. He had heard from other elves who moved to Denerim that it could take a week or more to travel there, but that hadn’t really impressed upon him how big Ferelden was. For the most part he tried not to think of the family he left behind as such thoughts filled him with heartache. Instead he focused on the multitude of lakes they passed, the hills and rocky outcrops, the rise and fall of land he had never known existed. Playing squirrels and songbirds helped distract him, and for that he was grateful. More distractions couldn’t hurt though. 

“Where are you from, Duncan?” 

“I was born in Highever.” 

The elf gave him a look as if he were being obtuse. “Fereldans are naturally light skinned.” 

“That may be, but I was still born in Highever.”

“But you’re not descended from Fereldans.” 

“Because I’m dark? You do realize that all Fereldans came from the north. Go back far enough, everyone here came from somewhere else.” 

“We’re not talking about ancient history.” 

“What about you? You’re also a native Fereldan.” 

“You know my mother was from Tevinter.” 

“Does that make you less of a Fereldan?” 

“Fine. If you need to get specific about it. Where are your parents from?” 

“Well, I met them in Highever.” 

Raviathan laughed. “Oh, come on. You know what I mean. Were your parents Fereldan?” 

“The fact that your mother was born in Tevinter doesn’t change the fact that she became Fereldan.” 

Raviathan threw up his hands. “Why won’t you answer? Is it some secret? Will it cast doubt on your honor or label you treasonous?” 

“It has before.” 

“You’re having me on,” Raviathan replied, eyeing the warrior. 

Finding that the elf had little knowledge on the Orlesian occupation and rebellion, Duncan continued with the history lessons as well as he knew them. It wasn’t until he started talking about Genevieve that he realized he was giving away too much. It was his own fault, but Raviathan was easy to talk to. 

Thankfully, a new distraction found them. Duncan stopped Raviathan and pointed out a small pack of wolves trailing nearby at the edge of a wood. “Can you take them out?” 

Raviathan unslung and strung his bow. “I’m not that good at archery. Not many opportunities to practice in the alienage.” 

“Just see what you can do,” Duncan replied. “A few of them are blight wolves.” 

“Blight wolves?” Raviathan asked as he took aim and slowly exhaled. 

“The taint that makes darkspawn dangerous has infected them. It makes them stronger and more aggressive, plus they spread the taint. The most obvious tell are hard spikes grow out of their fur.” He watched as Raviathan’s carefully aimed shot sped away. There was a yip of pain followed quickly with another arrow, and the first wolf was down. “Not bad at all.” 

There were a few misses, but the elf acquitted himself well taking down each wolf with two to three shots. The two blight wolves took five arrows each, but Raviathan’s nerves were steady as they charged. “Well done,” Duncan said clapping the elf on the shoulder. Raviathan grinned. unstrung his bow, then left to retrieve the arrows with Duncan following. “Beware of the blight wolves. Their blood is toxic.” 

“Is that true for all darkspawn blood?” 

“Yes. If their blood gets into an open wound, it can cause blight plague to all but Grey Wardens. Blight plague is wasting illness. Some may be able to fight off the taint to a degree, but it will always be fatal given enough time.” 

“Then the regular soldiers are in danger. How do you keep them from catching blight plague?” 

“We don’t,” Duncan said. “But there are less than two dozen Grey Wardens in Ferelden. We need the soldiers. That’s the nature of sacrifice. We must all sacrifice because if we don’t the darkspawn will cover all the nation and beyond.” 

Raviathan had stopped as the weight of that decision dawned on him. The burden of that knowledge was painful. “Do the soldiers know that?” 

“I don’t think so, or at least not completely. We have explained the nature of the taint to the generals and captains, and it is their job to make the rest understand.” Cailan was a problem that had been troubling Duncan since the hoard showed itself in the south. They desperately needed his support, but the king was far too inexperienced and incautious. Even this elf who had lived his whole life in a tiny ghetto, who had none of the benefits of advisers or tutors, could make better decisions. The manipulation of Cailan was depressing, but it was necessary. 

“So,” Raviathan asked as they neared the first of the downed wolves, “what are the symptoms of blight plague?” 

“Those infected by the taint become confused and weaken. However, there are occasionally animals who survive the initial stages. They mutate.” Duncan knelt by one of the blight wolves and used it knife to raise one of the spikes sticking out of its side. “See this? They’re hard enough to act as armor, and sharp. Like rabies, the animals are mad and very aggressive. Most animals avoid darkspawn. They sense the taint and run from it as they would a fire.” 

“I… I feel it.” Raviathan remained ten paces away, staring at the animal. “Duncan. It’s so awful. The taint. What is it?” 

“What do you know of the first darkspawn?” Maker’s breath, the boy was sensitive. Most people could feel the terrible unnaturalness of the taint, but not to that degree. Alistair had shown a keen sensitivity, more than any recruit Duncan had seen in his long years as Commander. Considering Alistair’s lineage, his sensitivity to the taint, and the power the taint induced dreams had on him, had been unfortunate if not unexpected. 

If Raviathan survived, the Wardens would have two who would be capable of tracking in a few years. Trackers had a rare talent for being able to distinguish the taint signature of a Warden and could follow it like a bloodhound on a scent trail. They could sense darkspawn from further distances, with greater accuracy, and eventually understand darkspawn communication. Trackers paid a heavy price for their gifts. Taint induced dreams left them screaming, and their resistance to the taint was not as strong, their life spans further reduced than their fellows. 

Raviathan backed away, his eyes focused on the blight wolf. He sat on a rock near the long lake, one in a series of the chains that led to Lake Calenhad. The day was as sunny as it had been moments ago, but the profound wrongness of the taint brought a chill to the air that had nothing to do with the cold southern wind.

“I know the story of the Tevinter Archons,” Raviathan began, his arms crossed over his stomach. He appeared sickened, his skin a shade paler. “From the historical and religious accounts, the most powerful of the Tevinter mages came together with the goal of walking in the Golden City, Seat of the Maker. They used up half the lyrium in the land and slaughtered many thousands of elven slaves in a blood magic ritual. That ritual transported their physical bodies to the Fade, not just their spirits. That ritual broke the veil that separates our worlds. Dark magic like that had never been attempted before or since. Partly because of the expense of lyrium and lives used to power the ritual, but also because of the damage those mages wrought. The birth of the darkspawn. 

“There are… different theories though. One is that the Maker, enraged—by the hubris of man, by the slaughter of thousands of lives, by the humans who dared to follow other gods, by the corruption of His throne, by Andraste only knows what—cast the mages back. The Black Divine in Tevinter says that the corruption of the Fade followed the mages. The White Divine of Orlais says the Maker made the darkness of the mages’ hearts real, cursed them with it. Such is how the first darkspawn were begotten. The Maker’s plague upon the world. 

“And still the Black and White Divines fight. A great irony is that the mages outside of Tevinter pay for the Archon’s hubris, while in Tevinter they still rule.” 

His focus turned inward, Raviathan continued. “But there are non-religious theories, too. A possibility is that the mages communicated extensively with demons and perhaps their own gods in order to learn the ritual. Demons, in their hunger for true life, took advantage of the mages’ equal hunger for glory. Breaking the laws of magic and physics may have transformed the demons they worked with, stripped away their intellect and brought only their accumulated evil. Or the demons betrayed them and corrupted the ritual in an effort to break open the veil. Either way, the effect was the same.

“One theory is that because the ritual had never been performed, the mages miscast. Could be that the darkspawn resulted from a simple mistake. The power raised was too much for the acolytes to handle, or that the casting itself suffered from lack of preparation. Killing so many people for the ritual something of a logistical nightmare, let alone harvesting and holding that much power.” 

Raviathan stood and walked over to the blight wolf with his hand extended. He tested the boundary of the taint that radiated off the wolf. “Can you imagine? All the death and pain the darkspawn have caused? All from something as small and stupid as mage with a hangover miscasting at the crucial moment? It’s a possibility though, considering how that there has never been so complex a spell performed.” 

The taint was like heat in that its darkness radiated, growing weaker the further away he was from the source. Just the prickles of wrongness started to make the tips of Raviathan’s fingers itch. How could he describe the wrongness of this feeling? Not just itch, but like his blood had turned to gravel, grinding him up from the inside.

“One thing most theorists agree on is that the mages went to what was known as the Golden City,” Raviathan continued only half aware of his words. “The Golden City was inaccessible to all, even Fade spirits. That City changed after the ritual, but the reason may not be divine. Could be that the City was really a prison for a great evil, and the mages unleashed that evil. The evil tainted the City then followed the path the mages had created to our realm.” 

His bones felt like they were splintering inside his hand. How could Duncan stand to be so close to the taint? Just the smell alone. Rot was at least part of their world. This didn’t smell like old blood or rot or even infection. Acidic bile and offal were the closest scents Raviathan could link it to, but even they were natural. This was wholly separate. 

“My people are much more likely to be born with mage talent than a human. Our souls are tied to the Fade as no other creature is. All that death. All those lives sacrificed. That alone thins and can tear the Veil that separates our realms. The Fade, suddenly swarmed with fresh souls, along with all the power generated with blood magic and lyrium, was ripe for tampering. The elves, perhaps one or many with untapped talent, in one supreme moment of suffering and vengeance, cursed the Tevinter mages when they were at their most vulnerable.” 

No longer able to stand the feeling of the taint, Raviathan returned to the stone, his head bent and arms over his stomach as if he was going to be sick. Twittering birds that had sounded musical before now graded against Raviathan’s ears, the contrast too sharp. 

“Another theory is that the taint isn’t anything divine, just a fall out from breaking the physics of our realms. The premise is that the mages were already utterly corrupt. That they would even do such a ritual testifies to their moral state. Forcing their physical bodies into the Fade resulted in an equal element of the Fade getting forced back into our realm. The part of the Fade that was forced came from the mages, bringing the darkness of their souls into the world. That darkness is the taint.”

Overwhelmed, Duncan blinked. “Where in the Maker’s name did you learn all of this?” 

“I, um,” Raviathan gave him a sly if weak smile. “When I was young, I used to sneak into a bann’s library at night to read.” 

Astonished out of conscious thought, Duncan sat next to his recruit. Were there going to be no end of surprises with this lad? 

“I’ve got a pretty good story about that.” 

“No doubt,” Duncan snorted, putting an arm around the elf. The boy looked like he needed a stiff drink. “So you already knew something of what the taint is.” 

“It was all intellectual before,” Raviathan said, sounding far off as he regarded the blight wolf. “Words only. I never expected to… to feel it. Like heat radiating from a bonfire. Duncan, I’ve thought about morality all the time. What’s good and bad, the ethics of competing moral standards. Is it better to save a few at the risk of many? Steal bread to save your loved ones? Even when it was practical… do we have the right to throw a child out of the alienage? Children don’t know the consequences to the degree an adult does. Is it fair to ruin their lives, take away the only protection they may have? What’s good, what’s evil? What is just? Right and wrong.

“But this? It’s beyond all of that. Makes all those concerns seem like children’s games. The questions we ask about moral behavior have real consequences, affect so many, but they’re nothing in the face of… of that. When I first heard the story of how the darkspawn came to be, it couldn’t prepare me for the sheer… wrongness. That’s the taint?” 

Duncan nodded. 

“It’s like turning the world upside down, but far, far worse. I felt like I was being turned in ways my body can’t move. Like my stomach getting ripped out, the bones of my ribs prying open, snapping back so that I’m blood and slippery organs on the outside.” 

“That’s a very accurate description. I’ve heard maggots under the skin, too.” 

“That crawly feeling? Yeah, kind of. But maggots belong to this world. That… that feeling of wrongness never did.” Raviathan took Duncan’s hand in both of his. He studied the warrior’s rough hand as he thought. “And that’s what you fight. What you want me to fight.” 

For the first time since he had walked out of Denerim’s gates, Raviathan’s thoughts of the alienage weren’t made solely of loss. The faces of the people he loved shown bright in his mind. Pain lingered, but he no longer felt that he gave them up. They needed to be protected. They needed him. 

‘The Tide of Evil’ was a cliché that populated child’s stories. He and his mother had told countless stories to children, fantasies only, of dark mages or werewolves or darkspawn. Fears of a world too great, of overwhelming power, could be diminished by these stories. In stories they could contain their fear, control it. Raviathan was far enough away he didn’t feel the twisting wrongness radiating from the blight wolf anymore, but the memory lingered, like the smell of burning. 

The Fade had a connection to this world, but it was little beyond impressions. The love a child gave a toy animal could be seen in wear with only the vaguest impressions of the emotion that clung to the figure. Raviathan could feel the subtle flavors of meditative calm and creation his mother had infused in her lute. In the realm of the living, the Fade was real as music, untouchable, it’s vibrations permeating physical structures, filling their world, but few could do more than get impressions. 

This, the taint, was Fade energy, but the power of it seized Raviathan by the heart. The Fade covered all things like a thin mist—pervasive, but light, caught more in the periphery than direct sight. The taint was like an avalanche. There was no avoidance, no denial. It was fast, brutal, inescapable. There was no intellectualizing, no diminishing. The twisted wrongness of the taint was alive. As terrible as an avalanche was, it was passive. Mud and snow, a creating of physical forces. The taint lived. It sought. It wanted to destroy. 

The soldiers who had carried out the purge when Raviathan was a child were savage beyond reason. They cared nothing for the lives they stole, the generation of pain they brought to the survivors. But they were men. They were sons and fathers, had wives, lived lives outside that time of madness as different people who obeyed laws and worked for their existence. The thugs who killed his mother were human, with all the complexities of humans. They were men who wanted survival in a hard world, and made that world harder as a result. The templars who killed his aunt were fanatics, hateful men who believed in the sanctity of their actions. But they believed they followed a righteous cause. Even Vaughan. Self centered, bastard that he was, was only a man. The evil all those men wrought upon the world, upon Raviathan and his kin, was caused by heartlessness. Those men didn’t set out to do evil as some caricature in a story, cackling at the hapless hero. Those men just didn’t care who they hurt, that they caused pain. 

The taint sought destruction. It was evil. It was every act of rape, murder, betrayal, and violence without the corresponding humanity to check its path. 

Raviathan ran his thumb over the dry skin of Duncan’s hand. Scarred, arthritic, calloused, and strong. 

He was one elf, one small link in a coat of armor, but so were they all. The links stood together. One little elf could do nothing to stop the tide of taint that swelled in the south. But he wasn’t alone. He would be part of the Grey Wardens. He would fight along soldiers from all over the land, from cities and places he had never seen. Together, they would fight. What little strength he had, he would give. What he was asked to do was more than anything he could have envisioned in his life. A purpose greater than he ever thought possible. 

His mother and aunt, by sword or scalpel, had protected their community, the people they loved. They had taught him what they could in the few years they had. Raviathan saw the image of his cousins, his father, all his friends, the children he had played with, Valendrian, Nesiara—Raviathan’s heart squeezed tight at the thought of her. Then the damaged people of the village who sought his healing, Finnian, Molly, and so many other faces floated in his mind’s eye. They all needed him. 

Raviathan leaned down and kissed the palm of Duncan’s hand. “Thank you, Duncan.”


	24. Strange Bedfellows – Divisions

What had gone through Raviathan’s mind, Duncan wondered. The lad’s reaction to the taint from the blighted wolves was singular in Duncan’s experience. Disgust, nausea, and terror were all normal responses, ones Duncan had seen often, but to be thanked? More often than not, new Warden recruits balked at their first encounter with the taint. While the elf’s motivation was a mystery, it was not the most pressing. The lad knew less than most about history or darkspawn, yet his recitation of theories matched Duncan’s own knowledge. “Rav, how did you know all that about the taint?” 

“Hmm? Know what?” Raviathan couldn’t tear his gaze away from a half-frozen waterfall. Fresh water poured over long-formed icicles, transforming the waterfall into a sculpture of shimmering light. A hazy rainbow muted the flashes of hard, bright light—light that turned the refracted sun cold and pure. “Maker’s breath, Duncan. I had no idea how beautiful this land is. Just look at that. It’s extraordinary, like winter distilled into one perfect moment. And that will only exist for such a brief time. The ice melts or the sun leaves, and we’ll never see this again. I don’t know if that makes the sight better or not.” 

Startled from his question, Duncan stopped to join Raviathan in watching the waterfall. “How do you mean?” 

“My aunt and I always had this discussion. She would say strawberries are sweeter because we only have them for a season. I would say strawberries are sweet no matter what. It’s just that we don’t always take the time to appreciate what we have. She thought that’s what made her win the argument, and why I think she lost. We can appreciate the world around us anytime by becoming mindful of what we have. Rainbows aren’t beautiful because they’’re temporary. They’re beautiful because they are beautiful. It’s just that people are more willing to pay attention to them because they’re rare.” 

On impulse, Duncan rested a hand on the lad’s shoulder, squeezing slightly. Elven eyes flashed in his direction, warm as an Antivan sea, before turning back to the waterfall. Duncan said into the peace of the morning, “I agree with your aunt. Some things are precious because they are so rare.” 

The two continued to watch the waterfall, Duncan casually combing his fingers through Raviathan’s hair. When he noticed Raviathan’s faint trembling, Duncan pulled his eyes away from the sight to glance at his charge. Tear tracks marking his face, Raviathan stared without seeing, an expression of exquisite pain naked as a blade.

“Rav?”

The elf turned his head away, hastily wiping away his tears. “S-sorry. Uh, you were telling me about the Emperor Drakon’s battles in the Second Blight.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

Raviathan breath hitched, and he turned to continue down the road. “The Battle of Ghislain? In Divine 32, wasn’t it?”

“Rav…”

“Dun-can.” Raviathan’s guttural voice broke his name. “Please?”

The more Duncan knew of the boy, the more of a mystery he became. Whatever Raviathan’s thoughts, escape from pain Duncan did understand. “When the contingent of griffin trained Wardens arrived from the Anderfels, Emperor Drakon planned an aerial assault on the captured city. Fortresses were not as common then, but the city used the natural marshlands it was built upon as a defense.” 

What was going through the lad’s head?

 

~o~O~o~

 

Instead of an army ready to move south to battle darkspawn, Duncan found himself being guided up the foothills south of Lake Calenhad that led to the Frostback Mountains. A thin drizzle sought every crevice and opening of his armor to soak him through like cold sweat. Scrub brush accompanied the scant weeds that struggled for purchase in the stony earth in this patch of Ferelden. Brow furrowed in consternation at the weather, Duncan eyed grey skies, grey rain, and land colored in shades of brown, grey, and more brown. 

“A very strange time of year for the Avvars to attack, isn’t it?” Duncan asked. 

“Indeed,” the messenger replied. “We get raids in the summer, then they go back up to their mountains to hole up the rest of the year when the snow makes the trails impassable. It’s our guess that the light winter has made them bold, so they decided to use that to surprise us.” 

“What’s an Avvar?” Raviathan asked. 

The messenger ignored the question until Duncan gave the man a hard glare. “Avvars are the barbarian tribes what live up in the mountains. Call us ‘lowlanders’. Raid our farms. Steal foodstuffs and whatever they can’t make on their own. Sometimes they take people, but that’s rare.” 

“Take people?” Raviathan prompted.

“Yes, ser. We hear some become slaves. Others are used as mates to bolster their numbers. But Avvars don’t have proper marriages. The keep a woman long enough to get them with a child or two, then the poor girl’s passed to the next. Avvars ain’t much more than animals, you ask me.” 

“Where did they come from?” 

When the messenger shrugged, Duncan asked Raviathan, “How much do you know of King Calenhad?”

“He united the tribes of Ferelden into one country. Then there’s the legend that he was part dog.” 

“That’s all you know?” The messenger turned his head to look at the elf. “Maker’s breath, even I know more than that.” 

Raviathan opened up his mouth to retort, but Duncan’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. “We’ll continue in more detail later. Suffice to say, the tribes that did not integrate with the rest of the nation moved either to the Frostbacks and became known as the Avvars, or went south into the Korcari Wilds, the Chasind.” Duncan let the messenger move further ahead so he could speak with Raviathan privately. “When I was in my first years as a Warden, one of my compatriots was an Avvar. A fine man with a level head. An excellent leader who sacrificed his life so that I and others could live. A good skill to cultivate is learning to distinguish fact from prejudice. Not that the Avvars haven’t earned the enmity of the arls and banns in this region, but they only see one side.” 

“You have that skill down well enough,” Raviathan said. 

“And one I want you to work on.”

“What, about humans? Duncan, he wouldn’t have even talked to me if you hadn’t glared at him. That wasn’t prejudice on my part. Honestly, you’re the only human who hasn’t treated me like a rat to be killed or an ox to be bought.” 

“No? Haven’t I viewed you in terms of your usefulness to the Grey Wardens?” 

Raviathan opened his mouth then closed it. “That’s different.” 

“How so?” 

After a moment’s thought, Raviathan answered. “You wouldn’t have risked me back at the alienage if you just desired a recruit. You may have gone to the alienage to get a recruit, but I was always a person to you, not like some sword you were purchasing.” 

“That’s a rarity, Rav, and not one that should be indulged in.” Duncan gave Raviathan’s shoulder a final squeeze then let go. “You’re just starting out, so you’ll see in time. When we recruit, we can’t judge, and that also means we can’t show favoritism. If that means you come across a templar and a blood mage who could both serve as Wardens, you take them both. It would be a hard battle to get them to work together, but that’s part of the sacrifice of the Grey. First and foremost, in every decision you make as a Grey Warden, your goal is to stop the darkspawn. By any means necessary.” 

Raviathan gazed up at Duncan, his eyes trusting yet measuring, weighing Duncan’s words and the intention behind them. “Do you mentor all your recruits like this?”

“No, I don’t.” 

“You’re worried about the war in the South.” 

“Of course. I would be foolish not to be.” 

Raviathan studied him, his eyes narrowed slightly as if trying to puzzle Duncan out. “More than that. Something new you’re concerned about.”

A stony glint hardened Duncan’s expression as he viewed the towering wall of mountain before them. “I wonder if the darkspawn could be driving the Avvars out of the mountains.” Raviathan’s head snapped forward to stare at the mountain, as if there was some clue he could find by looking closely enough. “If my suspicion is true, tell me what that means.” 

Nibbling his lip, Raviathan thought. “It could be that the darkspawn are moving west to Orlais. You said Orzammar is the only dwarven city left, and that’s at the north pass. So the darkspawn could be travelling underground in the path of least resistance further south. They could be sneaking up on Orlais from that direction, or the darkspawn could be looking for a defensible position in order to build their numbers up, particularly if the war in the south has been successful so far. We would have a much harder time fighting them in the mountains, and they would have the advantage of easy navigation in the tunnels under all the weather and snow we would have to fight through. 

“They could also be flanking us to surround the army, though. Or picking off allies rather than face a unified front. Could they be calling more darkspawn to the south? Like the reinforcements we’ve called from Orlais? How much do darkspawn think? How do they communicate?” 

Give the boy half a chance, and Raviathan rose to the challenge. The history lessons were paying off in gold. Though his expression didn’t change, Duncan felt a surge of pride in the lad’s intelligence. “All good questions, Rav, though some of the answers will have to wait.” 

The camp was readying to move. Squires and lesser soldiers had the task of packing tents and equipment while more experienced soldiers continued to train. 

The messenger was speaking with an older man surrounded by knights and a Chantry mother. Raviathan couldn’t tell the older man’s age. He had a full grey beard and long grey hair held out of his face with braids, but grey hair could mask a person’s true age, making him appear older than was necessarily the case. His armor was plain at first glance, but on closer inspection, Raviathan saw that it was very well crafted from fine materials. That could mean either the human wasn’t pretentious, or that he preferred to blend in to be less of a target to a hostile enemy. 

“That would be Arl Eamon,” Duncan whispered to Raviathan. 

“… issues with the recent rain,” the messenger stated, his chest puffed out. 

“I’ll allow for compensation of the east dock homes,” Eamon said. “What else?” 

“The arlessa is looking for a new tutor for your son.” 

“New tutor,” Eamon said, mystified. “What’s wrong with Torrme?” 

“She said she caught him drinking excessively during his lecture hours. She fears his influence on the young master. But she says…” The messenger quieted when the arl waved him off. 

“Whatever she thinks is best. I have other concerns at the moment.” The men around the arl chuckled. 

“It’s only an Avvar invasion followed by some darkspawn horde, Your Grace. Surely you can personally oversee every staff appointment,” one of the knights commented, eliciting more laughter. 

Raviathan wasn’t sure what to make of the arl. Despite the grey in his beard, he carried himself with the competence of a man used to fighting. A warrior certainly, but he didn’t have the arrogance that William or Vaughan displayed so readily. Raviathan nibbled at the inside of his lip. Elves he could read with no problem, but humans remained a mystery. Though he was getting better at intuiting their personalities, he needed to adapt quicker. 

“Duncan!” Eamon said with the warmth of an old comrade. “Good you came when you did. We’re going to move camp further west in an hour.” 

“I take it you will not be heading south any time soon then,” Duncan said. 

“Not necessarily. I’ve been having some success in negotiations with the Avvar messenger. But come. We’ll discuss in more detail.” Eamon left to return to his tent, his knights following. 

“Stay in the camp while I talk to the arl.” Duncan turned back to Raviathan, eyes narrowed in mock irritation. “And no getting in trouble or kidnapped.” 

“So many shems about. That’s going to be a tall order.” Raviathan grinned back at Duncan’s suspicious look, relieved that his mentor understood him. “Well, with this much fabulousness, I can’t blame them for being unable to resist me.” 

“Yell if one of them throws you over his shoulder.” 

“Will do.” 

Raviathan caught the flash of white from Duncan’s grin when he turned to follow the rest to the arl’s tent. Watching the old warrior’s retreating back, Raviathan nibbled his lip. He might be able to ease some of Duncan’s old scars and arthritis if he was careful. Stinging nettles and burdock root grew in abundance here, perfect for teas and ointments. Raviathan would have left to go hunting for herbs if Duncan hadn’t ordered him to stay. With so many new landscapes, Raviathan was itching to explore. How amazing this world was outside of his alienage. If his people could live free as the Dalish, out in the wonder of this land, their lives would be near perfect. 

Since he was left to his own whims, Raviathan wandered about the camp. Everything fascinated him. He watched the squires bundle tents and equipment for a time, studying how they packed with an economy of space. Some of the equipment was ingeniously made, such as the cooking pots that stacked inside one another. Horses and oxen were tied up on one side of camp, which he decided to avoid. Attracted by the sound of sparring, Raviathan decided to head to the training area. He had never had the opportunity to watch men train before. 

Rounding a large tent, Raviathan froze. A pack of huge, muscled mabari sat together in an open area of the camp. A pale grey beast lifted her head, her nose scenting the air, then turned to look at him. Raviathan’s breath caught. Memories of howls, jaws bared to tear him apart, the smell of burning flesh all snapped into his brain. Within seconds, the entire pack was staring at him. 

The kennel master rose up from the middle of the pack, a jar of silvery clay in one hand. He looked at the pack then to where Raviathan stood. “Huh. You’d think they’ve never seen an elf before.” 

At least he was called an elf. The kennel master’s calm allowed Raviathan to reexamine the pack with new eyes. Despite his fear, the mabari showed no hostility. The dogs were curious above all else. 

“You afraid of them, then?” 

“A bit.” 

“So that’s what got their attention. Eh, nothing to fear unless you’re one of them Avvars. Last I remember, no elves among them.” The kennel master bent down to smear more of the clay on the next dog. “If they were regular dogs, you’d be in trouble. Smell of fear would make them aggressive, go after you. These beauties know they can rip off your arms before you could do more than squeak. Isn’t that right, me dear,” he cooed at the closest. 

Humans made no sense. Ignoring the man’s odd behavior, Raviathan studied the dogs now that he knew the animals were controlled. They probably weighed more than he did by a few stone. The mabari came in all shades, their short fur showing off powerful muscles. 

Most of the war dogs’ muscle resided in their shoulders, their forelegs oddly shaped for a dog. Their forelegs reminded Raviathan of children playing at being dogs, the way children had to position their hands and arms to accommodate being on all fours. The comparison helped Raviathan identify how a mabari’s shoulders locked much further back. Beneath their intimidating muscle mass, the dogs’ wide scapula bone covered the front ribs like a piece of armor. The humerus bone was shorter, thicker, as were their metacarpus bones, setting their forelegs further back than a normal dog. Their over large paws ended in heavy claws, unusual for a dog. 

“What’s the paint for?” Raviathan asked. The analysis of the dogs’ skeletal structure took Raviathan’s mind off his fear. The dogs had returned to sniffing the air or the paint, looking about at whatever interested a mabari. Except for the grey female who continued to watch Raviathan, her head cocked in curiosity. The dog actually had quite a sweet face, Raviathan thought. Gentle eyes. 

“Mabari identify their pack by smell. They’re familiar with the soldiers here, but blood has a strong scent. Can confuse them in the thick of battle, especially when they get excited. The clay reminds them who their friends are.” 

The grey mabari was still watching him. When her stub of a tail started a tentative wag, Raviathan returned the gesture by wiggling his fingers. A bright pink tongue fell out to lick her muzzle. He grinned, enchanted by the animal’s plaintive whine. She twisted in her sitting position to take a step toward him, her neck stretched out. 

“Hey! Get out of here!” The kennel master pulled on the grey mabari’s collar to get her to turn away. “I don’t need her imprinting on some random knife ear.”

So they were back to knife ear. Shems were all the same once their surface was scratched. Knife ear. Raviathan had a vivid image of just where he would stick that shem’s knife. “What’s imprinting?” 

“I said go! A mabari with this breeding is meant for a warrior.” He pulled at her collar again, eliciting a yelp. Raviathan didn’t think she was hurt so much as distressed. She was such a sweet dog, too. Thinking it better not to cause the dog any confusion, he left. 

Were shems all the same? Just because Duncan was a good man didn’t mean they all were. Shems could be pleasant enough when they wanted something, like getting their lives saved, but should an elf forget his place, humans were quick to pull his ears. Deciding there was no use dwelling on it, Raviathan continued to the practice area. 

The clearing was divided into three main areas: archery practice, sword on dummy practice, and a section for sparring with wooden weapons. Of the three, sparring brought back the most memories for Raviathan. His training had always been with his mother, so watching a sparring match from an outside perspective made him review his techniques in a new light. 

Most of the combatants were sword and shield fighters, or sword and board as his mother called it. Their style was completely different from Raviathan’s own two weapon system, which may have explained the discrepancies he saw, but to Raviathan, the fighters appeared clumsy. Their footwork was shoddy to say the least, heavy and inflexible, more like a lumbering ox trudging through a muddy field than warriors trained to battle. Worse than that, their attacks were slow. Perhaps that was deliberate, but Raviathan couldn’t see any benefit. These were warriors going into battle and should already have the necessary muscle memory down. The fighters also left a number of vulnerable areas open if only their opponent was clever enough to exploit them. 

Confused by the inadequacy of the warriors, Raviathan turned to study the other knights practicing with dummies. Most were also sword and shield, but he did spy one knight who used a large claymore in a two handed style. Taking the opportunity, Raviathan studied the man’s swings and defense. The sword was powerful, no doubt, but it was a slow style of fighting. Raviathan shifted unconsciously as he mentally placed himself in the position of the wooden dummy. He thought of ducking or swaying to avoid the blade, using his movement to take advantage of the knight’s many openings. 

For the first time, Raviathan wondered why anyone would choose to study a two-handed weapon. The power wasn’t worth the excessive slowness or vulnerability the weapon demanded. Raviathan chewed his lip in thought. Armor only protected so much. Why would anyone choose to give up the flexibility and quickness of two weapon fighting? As he watched the soldiers, he mused that humans as a whole lacked the speed and agility of an elf. At least, from this sample they did, and that was also true of the Arl of Denerim’s guards. If all they had was strength, best to focus on that. 

When Raviathan turned to examine the archers, he realized more than a few of the soldiers were staring at him. This again? As he looked about, though, he realized he hadn’t seen a single elf in the camp. Redcliffe had elves, didn’t it? These men must have seen an elf before. Then Raviathan was struck with the realization that he had never met an elf from Redcliffe. Marriages were arranged with every alienage and most towns in Ferelden. He had met elves from Lothering, Gwaren, West Hills, all corners of Ferelden, but not one from Redcliffe. A chill went down Raviathan’s spine. Why in the Maker’s name were there no elves from Redcliffe? 

“You there. Those sticks on your back just for show?” The soldier who addressed him had brown hair plastered to his skull from the helmet he had been wearing. Otherwise his features were large in a relatively young face. 

The soldier didn’t sound unfriendly, but Raviathan’s guard was up. He wondered if he should shout for Duncan, though that seemed as silly as much as tactful at this point. The soldiers hadn’t done anything but stare and address him, but there were a lot of these men taking an interest. 

“I’ve used them before,” Raviathan said. 

“He came with that Grey Warden,” another soldier said. That statement caused a round of murmurs to rise from the gathering knights. 

“Grey Warden, eh?” the flat haired knight said. “You his servant then?” 

“His recruit.” 

“Heh. Haven’t heard of elves fighting with the Grey. What say you to a little practice? See what makes a Grey Warden so special?” 

“With you?”

“Yeah,” the flat haired knight responded. 

Raviathan wasn’t sure he was reading the humans correctly. There was a touch of hostility to their gazes, but that could just be men issuing a challenge, the typical competitiveness that most men had. Some of the men glared while others looked on with curiosity. The squire Gage had said wearing his weapons openly could make him a target for men who would want to take an elf down a peg. Was that the reason for the challenge? Or was it his status as a Grey Warden recruit that intimidated them into proving themselves?

Whatever their motivation, Raviathan had seen these men spar. One on one, he was sure he could beat them. “Alright. A friendly match then?” 

“What else?” the knight returned with a lopsided grin. Raviathan studied him, not sure if there was genuine friendliness in the smile or a hard challenge. Humans were still hard to read most of the time, but considering what he knew of shems, Raviathan was certain the knights would try a trick or two before he left the camp. 

Of the wooden weapons, there were no small practice blades to simulate Raviathan’s dagger. Instead, Raviathan took the shortest ‘sword’ out of the rack. He tested his two choices with a few swings. Like his own practice weapons from when his mother trained him, the wooden swords were heavier than regular steel in order to build up strength. Lead or iron in the hollow of the weapon gave it weight but also changed the balance of the sword. The short sword would already be awkward while the poorly integrated metal further reduced the weapon’s effectiveness. This would be more of a challenge than Raviathan anticipated. 

The rest of the soldiers gathered in a loose circle. Their scrutiny bothered Raviathan more than the awkward sword weight. Not only was he still getting used to being the only elf in a land overrun with humans, now he was the exclusive focus of their attention. Neither fact boded well. “May I have your name?” Raviathan asked the knight whose helmet was back to flattening his hair. 

“Call me Arrol, if you will. And you, ser?”

“Rav.” 

Arrol was a sword and shield man, already prepared to spar. Raviathan rotated his neck to loosen it and did his best to ignore the calls of the watching soldiers. He faced his opponent with a sideways stance, his weapons raised in the ready. The stance was defensive, inviting the enemy’s first strike. Raviathan remembered that the shield was as much a weapon as the sword, having been bashed by one during the attack on the Arl of Denerim’s estate. Best to stay away from the man’s shield, but he would likely be expecting that. 

Did darkspawn use shields? Duncan had said they didn’t think, at least, not as conscious creatures. They communicated. That required thought, or did they communicate the way bees did? Would learning to fight against an enemy who used a sword and shield be useful against the darkspawn? 

“What are you waiting for, Warden?” The use of the title was taunt rather than respect. 

“I fight darkspawn, not soldiers. Darkspawn don’t wait because they do not know fear.” 

A rise of calls echoed from the soldiers at the jibe. Raviathan could see Arrol’s grin through the slit of his helmet. The longer he was away from the alienage, the more Raviathan wished he could read shems better. Was this Arrol a good sport about the tease or…

The soldier rushed forward, his sword raised to slam into Raviathan’s side. Raviathan jumped to the side to avoid the sword, his off-hand weapon striking the wooden blade, sending it high. Quickly, he stepped back in with a blow to the rear of the soldier’s helmet, pivoting to keep his focus on his enemy. Raviathan hadn’t struck hard, not for lack of ability but to minimize any damage he would do. Head wounds were serious, and this was only a practice after all. The soldier would have real enemies soon enough and would need a functioning brain. Well, assuming these soldiers had functioning brains. 

More hoots arose from the gathering crowd. Instead of a loose circle of men, they now stood shoulder to shoulder. Raviathan worried about the crowd. Not only was he a stranger, he now realized he could be insulting this Arrol in front of his compatriots. Should he let the knight win then? Try and make him look good? No, Raviathan dismissed the idea. Arrol had asked for the fight. If he lost, that was his problem. 

Arrol swung around, his sword held away in a wide angle. Raviathan’s mother would have had him do sit ups until he couldn’t feel his torso for being so careless. Arrol charged again in the exact same manner. Raviathan had only a split second to decide if the trap was a fake to get him to try the same maneuver and be taken or if the soldier was hoping Raviathan would recognize the trap and try a different tactic. 

Raviathan put a leg back as if to side step again. Arrol’s rush wasn’t out of control as it had been the first time, but he didn’t seem to recognize Raviathan wasn’t moving in the exact same way as the first attack either. When the soldier closed in, Raviathan sprang forward and pivoted to the soldier’s shield side, then rammed his shoulder into the shield. If it could bash one way, why not the other? The soldier’s feet tangled in his sudden change of direction, his momentum turning into a sliding fall along the mud and stone earth. 

Was this some trick that he couldn’t figure out? Surely the Redcliffe soldiers were not this incompetent. Maybe this was a squire after all. If so, Raviathan felt like an ass for trouncing the boy instead of helping him develop. 

“Here. How about me, Warden?” 

Raviathan turned to see the two-handed swordsman he had been studying before. This soldier had broad muscles, a bigger target who had a lot more force. Hard eyes glared from a wide, deeply lined face darkened with thick stubble. This whole situation was going pear-shaped. “I understand you are off to march soon. Perhaps another time.” 

Boos sounded all around him in the gathered circle. He had a wall of shems around him, all roused and ready. Bloody Maker’s ass. He should have bowed out from the first match. Now he would look a coward and fool if he called for Duncan. That is, if Duncan could hear him over the rabble. 

“Come on, knife ear. Promise I won’t damage that pretty face of yours.” 

Heat rose in Raviathan’s cheeks. As if ‘knife ear’ wasn’t bad enough, why did every damn shem have some ‘pretty’ comment ready? In response, Raviathan stretched out his arms, swords low, and gave the soldier a short bow. The soldier grinned, stalking around the living circle with a wooden sword ready. Raviathan took his side facing position, pivoting to track the soldier’s movement. 

As before, when the attack came, it was a sudden fury of movement. The sword sailed overhead, straight for Raviathan’s shoulder at the base of his neck. He reversed his stance to be on the other side of the sword’s arc, narrowly escaping the sword’s path as the wood swooshed inches from his face. Taking advantage of the soldier’s opening, Raviathan stepped in to jab the soldier’s side. The man’s elbow shot out. Surprised, Raviathan barely had time to recognize the maneuver. The elbow caught him, a graze, but enough to tell him this man wasn’t pulling his attacks. 

Laughter erupted from the circle of onlookers. Whether from the silly back arching dodge Raviathan was forced to do to escape the elbow, or from his surprise at the attack, Raviathan couldn’t tell. 

Interesting tactic though. Taking a different view, Raviathan realized the two-handed sword gave the man greater reach while improvised hand attacks kept him competitive at close range. Excited, Raviathan returned to his standard position. At least he was learning in this fight. 

The soldier readied his next attack, a wide horizontal arc aimed for Raviathan’s side. Raviathan crouched with his main sword sliding the blade high, using the soldier’s momentum to again expose an opening. To his shock, the soldier pivoted quickly, increasing the heavy momentum of the sword. Raviathan sprang from his crouch away from the blade. Not fast enough. The soldier had been aiming for him in the low position. He couldn’t adapt quickly enough to follow Raviathan, but he did manage a sound crack against Raviathan’s calf. 

For a second, Raviathan thought his leg might be broken. Raucous cheers erupted, but they sounded distant compared to the pain that simultaneously numbed his leg and burned. The warrior hadn’t paused to let him recover though. Raviathan’s attention snapped to the soldier, the great sword already coming for him. Raviathan back peddled as he parried. The soldier pressed him, nearly at a charge. 

Speed. Control the battle. Raviathan was letting this man use his muscle to his advantage and taking away his own agility. Since his leg was clearly not broken, Raviathan twisted to the side. The soldier followed, but Raviathan kept dancing out of the way. This soldier was tricky, but he lacked flexibility. Raviathan kept the man twisting around, placing himself where the soldier couldn’t attack. This time, when Raviathan closed for an attack, he was prepared for the elbow that struck out. Raviathan bent back with the elbow, taking the hit, but slamming his sword against the back of the soldier’s knee. The soldier fell with a thud, his eyes wide when the tip of Raviathan’s short sword pressed against the underside of his jaw. 

“Yield?” 

“Aye,” the man huffed. 

Raviathan kept the sword against the soldier’s jaw. He pressed a little harder. “Don’t call me knife ears.” 

“Aye, Warden,” he rasped. 

Raviathan nodded then stepped away. To his surprise, the wall of soldiers cheered him. He expected boos or resentment, but no, they actually cheered for him. He wasn’t quite sure what to do. Of the various faces, Arrol’s caught his eye. The man was young, and in review, was likely a squire. More than that, he wouldn’t meet Raviathan’s eyes, and Raviathan felt an unexpected pang of shame war with a flash of anger. 

However distracting the cheering and Arrol were, Raviathan was on the ready. That soldier has shown a level of cunning that kept a man alive through year after year of battle. When the downed soldier lunged for him, Raviathan leapt up out of his grasp, his sword swinging to club the man’s forearm. To his credit, the soldier made no noise even though he must have been in pain. Exasperated, Raviathan thumped the soldier’s helmet. “You idiot. You’ve got a battle coming up. I was trying not to hurt you.” 

Duncan’s laugh rang through the crowd. “And that’s why I chose him, Eamon.” 

Raviathan went to his mentor, warmed and slightly abashed at the praise. “Um, we should get going, shouldn’t we, Duncan? Long miles ahead and all?” 

“How’s your leg? Do you need to rest it?”

“It’s fine. We should go.” 

Duncan squinted at his odd behavior but let it go. He and Eamon shook hands, Eamon giving Raviathan a respectful nod that completely caught him off guard. 

Once they started leaving, Raviathan took Duncan’s elbow to rush him out of the camp. “Rav. What in the Maker’s name has gotten into you?” 

Raviathan cast a glance back over his shoulder then started jogging, forcing Duncan along with him. A holler of panic rose from camp. Shouts and laughter followed. 

“What?”

“Would you hurry?” 

“Rav, you tell me what’s going on right now.” 

Raviathan pressed his lips together, sent another glance at the camp, but did not slow. “That soldier. The two-hander. I, ah, knocked him down.” 

“I saw.”

“Into a pile of red ants.” 

“On purpose?” 

“He called me knife ears. And he was mean.” 

Duncan sighed, caught between wanting to laugh and worry that his newest recruit was going to be a source of endless difficulties for the Wardens. He was brought out of his thoughts by Raviathan’s question. “Duncan, why are there no elves in Redcliffe?”

“How do you know that?”

“I didn’t see any in the camp, not even servants to tend animals or pack. And there’s never been an elf from Redcliffe in the alienage.” 

Duncan murmured deep in his throat. “The arlessa keeps a few as personal servants in the castle, elves she brought with her from Orlais. I believe that most of the elves, if not all, were taken by the Orlesians as slaves during the occupation or fled to the Dalish. You’ll note that all of the soldiers were male. Orlesians disapprove of women in combat, an attitude that marks Redcliffe’s values from the rest of the nation to this day. Come. I know a path south of the Imperial Highway that will save us a number of miles. And perhaps keep any revenge minded soldiers away,” Duncan said with a shake of his head. “We’ll be at Ostagar soon.”


	25. Strange Bedfellows – Out Of Hiding

The afternoon rain had subsided leaving a crystalline night of pure clean air and freezing cold. They were miles past Lothering, making up time by using a hunter’s trail through the Hinterlands that Duncan was familiar with. The camp they used was well established with two logs set around a rock lined fire pit. Once the tree needles had been brushed away to prevent accidental fires, the clearing was ideal. Trees provided a partial break from the constant chilled wind, and there was ample flat space for their tent. The Imperial Highway was only a half mile off, so with this route they would be at Ostagar by midmorning. 

Huddled before the fire, Raviathan shivered, his breath visible like the smoke of a sleeping dragon. The makeshift poncho was helping, but Ferelden’s cold had a way of penetrating through the warmest of furs. Fingers numb beyond feeling, Raviathan had to concentrate on watching the needle so he didn’t prick himself. Keeping his eyes on the flashing needle, he asked, “Duncan, how do you evaluate recruits? What do you look for? And would you give the pot a stir?”

“This smells good. There’s skill, of course, though I value potential more. Skills can always be developed. As for personality, hard to say, Rav. There isn’t one ideal Warden. We look for courage, a willingness to sacrifice, thoughtfulness in difficult situations, all of which you’ve demonstrated. Choosing recruits is more art and developed instinct rather than science. I know many Commanders who have their own methods, and most disagree with each other. I’ve heard long discussions arguing various points, but people are much more than a collection of discreet traits. What’s worked for me is instead of thinking what I would need from an individual Warden, think of what I need from a group. Wardens need tacticians as much as muscle. The more varied your Wardens, the more resources you have at your disposal.” 

Raviathan frowned as he adjusted the shirt he was working on. “You said you tried to get a mage from the Circle. If a mage joins the Wardens, doesn’t that make them an apostate? How do you keep them safe from templars?”

Wincing slightly from a knotted old scar that stretched across his back, Duncan straightened. Magic was often a sore spot with many who were new to the Order. Duncan had a friend when he was a street thief in Val Royeaux who had some minor talent. That had been his first introduction to magic. He never feared it the way most men did. His openness made working with Fiona easier. Being an elf had set her apart more than being a mage had. 

Experienced Grey Wardens learned to value their mages for their ability to heal or inflict great damage from a distance. Luckily, Raviathan didn’t sound hostile about the possibility of working with mages, only curious. “Mages are highly valued but difficult to come by. The Circle does keep a tight rein; however, once a mage joins the Wardens, they are unbound by Chantry regulations. There was a mage who had promise but was made tranquil before I could recruit her.” 

“Made tranquil?”

“It is a process I am unfamiliar with, but it takes the magical ability away from a mage,” Duncan said. Raviathan shook his hand when the needle accidentally pricked his skin then stuck his slender finger in his mouth. His eyes reflected the orange in the fire along with his own unique turquoise, refracting light much like cat eyes. The way elven eyes flashed in low light made them appear more alien than during the day, or more beautiful depending on one’s preferences. No matter how closely elves resembled humans, moments like this reminded Duncan that elves were a creature of a wholly different nature. 

The tranquil girl’s eyes had lost the luminescence that marked the elven race. Her empty gaze haunted Duncan’s memory like a lurking shadow. Mages like Neria were desperately needed now, but the loss of her soul depressed Duncan more than if she had died. “Tranquility also takes away their emotions and the ability to dream.” 

“I didn’t know that was possible.” Perhaps mages made him nervous after all. Duncan stirred the pot again not letting the lad notice his scrutiny. Raviathan continued his sewing, intent on his work. “Why did they do that to her? Is the practice common?” 

“There was some business about an escaping blood mage. She helped the mage, and the Knight-Commander of the Templars made her a tranquil as punishment. As for how common the practice is, I couldn’t say. The punishment in that case was considered exceptionally harsh. The First Enchanter was outraged. What are your feelings on the subject?” 

“Of magic or being made tranquil?”

“Both.” 

“I think magic could be useful,” he admitted. “The tranquil. It takes away their emotions?” 

“Yes,” Duncan replied. “Once you have met one, you can spot them easily. They cannot love or feel hate. There is no joy, but there is no sorrow.” 

Raviathan said very quietly, “It sounds like a nightmare.” 

“They do not complain.” 

Raviathan’s voice stayed very low as if they were discussing something taboo. “Why would they? They can’t even feel the injustice done to them.” 

“There are a few who undergo the process voluntarily.” 

There was a small, “em” of discomfort, and Raviathan put his finger back in his mouth from another needle prick. 

“Perhaps you should leave your sewing for another time.” 

“You’re right. I can’t feel my fingers anymore.” 

“So you object to tranquility?”

“I…” He began but stopped with his lips pursed. “If the Maker made them that way, with magic, it isn’t right to take it away.” 

“What about blood mages?” 

Raviathan was quiet for moment. “I can understand why the templars would want to do that to mages, and there are mages who can be a danger to others, but the cost is too high. They aren’t even people anymore.” 

“The tranquil I’ve spoken to would disagree. They do not have emotions, but they have minds. They feel physical pain as you do.” 

“But what is the point of it? Would you call that a life? It’s existence, but that isn’t the same thing. They can’t feel rage or hate, but they can’t feel compassion either. I’m not saying one’s feelings should take the place of reason, but that’s wrong. Shianni is in pain, but if she were tranquil, she wouldn’t even care. Tranquil can be… violated and abused, and just because they aren’t emotionally hurt by it doesn’t mean it isn’t abuse.” 

Duncan didn’t say anything as he thought about Raviathan. The more he got to know the young elf, the more he cared for him. Most his age were still working out their belief system and were often impetuous or impatient. Raviathan was just the opposite. He was curious but considerate, a balance of thoughtful and passionate. With a small squeeze in his chest, he mentally recited his prayer. Maker, please let him live. Duncan was brought out of his brief reverie when Raviathan asked, “What’s your opinion on the subject? It seems you favor mages.” 

“How did you come to that conclusion?” asked Duncan. As much as Raviathan liked listening to the histories he told, Duncan enjoyed hearing Raviathan’s thought process. 

“Because you wanted to recruit a mage. You’ve asked for my opinions on blood mages and the tranquil, but haven’t told me you agree with it.” 

“I haven’t said I disagree with it either.” The thickening stew bubbled around the edges sending out succulent aromas. Duncan set the bread by the fire to warm. 

“Do you?” 

There was more challenge in the question than curiosity. Duncan knew the elf had read him correctly and was pleased. “The darkspawn pose a greater threat than anything else. I would recruit anyone I thought fit to be able to fight them, including blood mages. Unless there is absolute reason to think they will become abominations, making them tranquil is a waste. We don’t have a mage now, which would have been an invaluable resource.” 

“How would you get evidence that a mage would become an abomination?” 

Duncan raised his eyebrows. “I suppose that would be difficult.” 

There was a bitter edge to Raviathan’s smile. “It’s like convicting someone of a crime they haven’t committed. ‘But I didn’t steal the apple.’ ‘No, but you looked like you were going to.’” 

“A fine point. I sometimes think the Chantry has too much control over the mages. I’ve seen abominations before, and they are horrendous things, but what we lose in the process is a terrible waste.”

“Supper is ready.” Raviathan filled Duncan’s bowl with the wolf’s share of the meal then filled his own bowl. 

“Most people are afraid of mages.” The meal the lad had made of their dried foodstuffs was remarkable.

Raviathan shrugged. 

“You don’t seem to be.” 

Raviathan finished chewing his mouthful in no hurry to answer. “I’ve friends and cousins taken to the Circle. We’d never hear from them again. One day, without warning, they were just gone. It was almost like they died. Sometimes children died of starvation or disease, but we could see that coming. Prepare for it. The first child I ever delivered, my little cousin Eldwyn, was taken a few years ago. Her birthday was coming up, and I made her a flute, was going to teach her to play. I know magic scares a lot of people, but it’s no worse than a sword.”

“Magic is a great deal more powerful than a sword.” 

“A noble is a great deal more powerful than any mage.” 

Dark whisperings started at the edges of Duncan’s thoughts. He had been so engrossed in the discussion he hadn’t noticed as the darkspawn had stalked them, probably centering on the taint that ran through Duncan’s blood. He froze, casting out his senses to find a small band from the south headed for them. He guessed there were about four. Chiding himself for not being more careful this far south, he said quietly, “Darkspawn. Stay to the shadows on the north. Beware and do not approach.” 

Raviathan had been on alert the second Duncan’s posture changed. The elf’s brow knit in mild puzzlement, but he nodded taking Duncan’s orders seriously. Raviathan moved slowly and low to the ground so as to not draw the eye. Duncan did the same going south. Though the sky was clear, the moon had not yet appeared. Everything was darkness and deep shadow. The elf’s eyes would fare better than his, but his Warden senses and years of learning to fight blind would get him though this. 

Sibilant hissing sounded through the taint. There was no doubt the hurlocks were coming for him. Four against one weren’t the best odds he had had, especially since the low light worked against him. He cloaked in shadow to hide his tainted blood from the hurlocks, the cool grayness settling over him like a cloak. The hurlocks were far enough away that he could take his time moving through the forest and plan for his attack. 

Circling around the band of darkspawn, he picked a spot that would limit their frontal attack. A path between a thicket and hillock would keep them from flanking him. Duncan picked up a few pine cones and tossed them in the path he wanted them to take. The darkspawn, wary when their quarry disappeared from their senses, chuckled at the sound and headed that way. Darkspawn weren’t completely unthinking, but weak ones like these weren’t great planners. They relied on the older darkspawn for that. 

Having taken the bait, they walked single file through the narrow path with their weapons out. Duncan padded behind the last, careful of his step. Even without the taint he would have been able to smell them. They stank of rot and acidic bile. The taint in his blood crawled as he got near. If the dreams weren’t enough proof, the drawing song of the Archdemon that hummed faintly in the background of his awareness would have been. The taint was pulling him, was starting to see his enemies as kin. He had only a few months before he would take the Calling or go mad as the taint warred to dominate him. 

The darkspawn were uncertain, hissing suspicions. Time to act. Duncan grabbed the closest hurlock from behind, drawing his dagger across the creature’s neck. The rot and bile sent grew strong as hot black blood leaked down his hand. It was just blood. He had felt taint fill blood before, but now his own blood reacted, like wasps crawling beneath his skin, stinging in their frustration to get out. He tossed the body forward, catching the next hurlock when the three remaining turned to face him. He kicked the body, knocking the off footed hurlock to the ground then rushed the next standing monster. Branches pulled at his armor, and he almost tripped from the uneven footing in the dark. He used the momentum to his advantage, plunging his sword deep into the standing hurlock’s belly. He had to deflect an over head swing with his dagger, but another quick swipe and the hurlock was down. 

Heat blossomed from his thigh. The hurlock at his feet had managed to shift the body enough to get a strike. He kicked the creature’s face, hearing the jaw crunch and retreated a few steps to draw the last standing hurlock forward where he wouldn’t have to contend with the downed one. The hurlock lunged forward with a snarl. Even in the low light Duncan could measure its face from the faint shine in its eyes. Darkspawn like this rarely had anything more than brute force on their side. It was easy to parry the creature’s weapon wide then step in close for a strike. A second parry and strike. 

The moon peaked above the pines, deepening shadows in the cold light. The white skin of the hurlock gleamed as black feted blood slowly gurgled out. Just behind the creature’s shoulder, the grey skinned hurlock rose with pale grey eyes staring forward. Darkspawn had no souls. There was no more feeling in them than a corpse’s blind eyes. Black windows into an empty house, but soulless as they were, there was a malevolent intelligence that stared back. 

Duncan wasted no time in executing the darkspawn. A final strike to the nearest already sliced hurlock, then low kick to the one behind that popped a knee, and Duncan finished the job with a final thrust of his sword. The blood running down his thigh was cooling quickly in the chill night, and the wound started to sting. He limped quickly back to the camp so he could bandage the wound. At least there was a skilled healer waiting for him. 

Two more! Horrified, Duncan felt the presence of two more darkspawn north of the little camp. Genlocks were the next most common darkspawn after hurlocks, little scuttling thieves who often cloaked in shadow. The moon wasn’t bright enough to illuminate the forest floor, and he didn’t want to chance a twisted ankle or jarred knee. He hoped Raviathan had enough sense and ability to stay hidden. 

As if thinking his fear made it real, he realized it was the taint of two shrieks that now blazed in his awareness when they uncloaked. If hurlocks were foot soldiers, shrieks were elite stealth assassins. Cursing inwardly, Duncan tried to hurry. Branches snagged his armor, roots tangling his feet. Rav, stay safe, Duncan prayed. Stay hidden. 

He slipped a few times on stones and kicked a rock. Pain shot into his toe. A screech like metal grading on slate ripped through the night, instantly setting Duncan’s hair on end. No! That would tear anyone’s concentration. They knew their prey, were hunting aggressively. A terrified yell of, “Duncan!” broke the night. Dear Maker no! The boy had no chance against a pair of shrieks. Duncan had lost so many potential recruits. At times it felt like the world had conspired against him. Not this one too. Not him.

The shrieks were moving for the ambush. Their thoughts carried through the taint like scorpions scuttling in Duncan’s brain. They were heading back towards the camp, and he could feel the anticipation as one readied for an attack. The crack of bones echoed and an odd, sludgy sound came from the north past their campfire. Duncan’s heart fell at the sound. The tiny sense of anticipation from the shriek was gone, scarcely felt to begin with. Raviathan was already lost. The poor boy. Duncan slowed as he stumbled into the lit clearing of their camp as a stab of depression warred with rage. That poor, sweet boy. And to be killed so brutally. He had grown used to losing men over the years either to the darkspawn or the Calling, but the sting of this one was unexpectedly sharp. 

To his shock Raviathan stumbled, no, was thrown back, out of the thicker wood and into the clearing. He landed on his back, skidding over the slick pine needles. Blood covered one side of his face and neck, shining in the firelight. A narrow strip of white cheekbone glared from the mask of red. The shriek was there, its black skin melding with the shadows, but its long shark like rows of teeth and small eyes glowed orange in the firelight. It leaped with blinding quickness. The boy screamed, thrusting his hands forward. 

The relief at seeing Raviathan alive tightened Duncan’s chest, a pain that was all the worse with the knowledge he was too far away to save the elf now. Just a few seconds more and he could have made it. Damn it! He had the illusion of second chance thrown in his face. Now he would have to watch the boy savaged before him. Duncan’s face twisted in a snarl as he rushed forward bent on revenge. 

The shadows of the forest shrank back in sharp contrast to the blazing fire that erupted. The campground and forest were illuminated as if from a red sunset. A fifteen foot tongue of shimmering flame shot from Raviathan’s hands straight into the shriek. It struck the creature full on. There was a sizzle and pop then the shriek started to screech. It clutched at its face, beat at its body, and writhed on the ground still on fire. The stench of burning flesh and boiling blood filled the air. 

A mage. The boy was a mage. Duncan tried to wrap his mind around that fact as he walked up to the elf. The shriek had stopped moving. The corpse was a cracked, blackened thing and still on fire. Raviathan lay there staring at it. He was panting heavily as if he had just sprinted for miles, the whites around his eyes visible. Duncan could see no wound on the lad though the blood must be his as it was red. He stepped on the pine needles putting out the little fires before they spread then went to the elf. A mage. 

“Rav?” The elf didn’t even seem to see him. It wasn’t until Duncan touched his shoulder did Raviathan react with a jerk. 

Bright, flashing eyes stared up at him in terror. “Are there more?” 

“No. They’re all dead.” 

Raviathan’s chest started to spasm as he looked back at the burnt husk. Duncan knelt behind him and put a supportive arm around the young elf. Raviathan clutched at him and kicked back so he was pressed tight into Duncan’s chest. “It’s all right. They’re dead. All of them.” 

The young elf whimpered, turning to bury his head in Duncan’s chest as a few hot tears slipped out. Duncan kept up the litany of assurances as he held the elf. Raviathan’s aunt. She really was an apostate then. Had the two of them been hiding all those years? But could it have been raw talent that had gone unnoticed? A mage. To Duncan’s relief it didn’t take Raviathan long to recover once he was over the initial shock. Though still shaky, Raviathan wiped the tear streaks away with a trembling hand and stood. Drying blood covered half his face though there wasn’t the hint of a scar, only a smear where his tears mingled with blood. The front of his armor bore a series of long claw marks from the shriek. Duncan got up, wincing at the wound in his thigh. 

“You’r-re hurt?” 

“My thigh. And I stubbed my foot.” 

Raviathan waved the fingers on his left hand in an intricate but graceful gesture, and emerald flames danced over Duncan’s injuries. The relief from pain was immediate. So the boy was trained. Possibilities started flitting through Duncan’s head too quick to form into anything concrete. A trained mage who could fight. Offensive spells and healing magic. And he had found the boy just as a blight was starting. Maybe the Maker did smile on him after all. “What happened to the other shriek?” 

Even by the weak firelight Raviathan’s visible skin was pale. He pointed to the woods then clutched his upper arms, seeming like a child lost in the wilderness. The look Duncan was getting was cautious and fearful. That was puzzling. Why would Raviathan fear him? Picking up a half burning log, Duncan went into the woods in the direction Raviathan had pointed. Burning was still thick in the air, but Duncan was also getting the strong stench of darkspawn blood. As he ventured forward, the air became oily and thick. About ten yards away the ground squished. He raised the burning log as it slowly dawned on him what he was looking at. Bits of darkspawn were everywhere: shreds of organs, pieces of shattered bone, and an even coating of black blood on everything: tree trunks, pine needles, dirt, everything. It was a stunning display of gore. Damn. 

Duncan returned to see Raviathan standing in the same spot, staring at the fire. He looked up when Duncan stepped out of the wood, and Duncan got the distinct impression that the lad was about to bolt. “How did you do that to the shriek?” 

Raviathan bit his lips, watching Duncan warily. “Ih-” he stopped to clear his throat. “It’s a spell. Makes living things explode.” 

Maker’s blood! He hadn’t even known that kind of spell existed. It was incredibly gruesome. With a sinking realization, he was now able to equate the wet sound from before with the bloody scene. Damn. Mysteries that had been bothering Duncan snapped away: Raviathan’s extensive knowledge of the Fade, how his leg had not hurt after the sparing match, his skin that bore not the faintest scar from training. Valendrian had assumed Solyn had been involved in the same sorts of intrigue as Adaia, another trained rogue, but this? Maker’s breath. “What’s making you nervous, Rav?” 

The elf swallowed, keeping his eyes focused unblinkingly on Duncan. “You can’t tell anyone. I won’t go to the Circle. I won’t. If you try and make me I’ll do something bad if I have to. I won’t be put in a cage.” 

Duncan tried to keep from laughing, but he couldn’t help a wide grin. “Why in the Maker’s name would I take you to the Circle? I was hoping to recruit a mage, and now I have one. This is most fortuitous.” 

Fear left the elf replaced by caution. “You won’t tell anyone?” 

“Well, yes. I will.” Seeing the elf’s pained reaction Duncan elaborated, “We need a mage. You can’t keep these abilities secret. What are you afraid of? Once you’re a Grey Warden, the Circle can’t touch you.” 

Raviathan bit his lips again. “What about the templars?” 

“Grey Wardens submit to no one,” Duncan reassured. “Once you’re officially part of the Order, the templars and Chantry have no authority over you. Ever.” 

Shining blue emerald eyes regarded him from a mask of drying blood, measuring his words. “They can’t hunt me?” 

Pity filled Duncan. Raviathan had been afraid his whole life, had seen his kin taken away and aunt killed. “Never. Once you’re Joined, you’re a Grey Warden for life and submit to no one.” 

“You swear this?” 

“Absolutely.” 

The elf sniffed, still trembling as he regarded the burnt shriek husk. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard. Slowly he nodded. Duncan studied him. The elf had been beyond rage to rescue his family, had been attacked and kidnapped by a mob, but the fear of the templars and Circle outweighed that. The poor boy really had been given a rough road to walk. Duncan tossed the burning log into the fire and went to the elf, making sure his steps were loud, then put a hand on the boy’s trembling shoulder. “The templars, the Chantry, and the Circle will have no authority over you. I swear it, Rav.” Raviathan turned into him then, and they were back to the trust they had before. Stronger than before. 

“Solyn was an apostate then?”

“Yes.” Raviathan shivered against him. “Trained by the house that owned her.” 

Knowing they were not about to get sleep any time soon, Duncan decided to pull up camp and continue towards Ostagar. Raviathan washed his face then helped pack up their tent. Journeying at night was worth it just to get away from the corpses. Raviathan acted as their eyes until they reached the Imperial Highway. The Highway was bright in the ghostly pale glow of the moon leaving the surrounding lands a black suggestions in contrast. It was well into the night when they were both exhausted enough to get some sleep. 

Instead of leaving the Highway and setting up camp anew, they huddled together on one side of the road under their shared bedrolls. Duncan kept his back to the low wall as they settled in, front to front. Raviathan was completely cocooned in while Duncan had an opening to see out of if need be. The elf rested his head on Duncan’s chest with his arms loosely around the man. Thankful that he would have another night without nightmares, Duncan rested his cheek on the elf’s head, and Raviathan snuggled in. “What spells do you know, Rav?” 

The elf was quiet for a moment. “I really won’t be taken to the Circle?” 

“No,” Duncan said. “I promise. You may visit on Grey Warden duty in the future, but they can’t force you to stay.” 

“And the templars?” 

There was such fear in his voice. “No one is allowed to interfere with the Grey Wardens. Not even templars.” 

After another minute Raviathan asked, “How much do you know of magic?” 

“Very little I’m afraid.” 

At the elf’s silence, Duncan tightened his hold to reassure him and felt Raviathan relax into him. “There are four main schools of magic and each has an opposition. There’s creation and entropy. I don’t know any entropic spells, but from creative I know how to heal. Solyn made sure I knew as much as she did after my mom died. That’s why I also know so much about herbalisum and healing in general, not just magic.” 

“Why did you learn medicine? Isn’t magical healing enough?” 

“Magical healing is powerful but limited. Healing magic works best for injuries, but there’s a lot of things that can go wrong that aren’t injuries. Diseases, infections, and poisons are difficult, and it’s better to use different types of healing. Just throwing magic at a problem can sometimes make it worse. With some of those people in the village, I did use magic, usually to heal the deeper scars. That green light is residual energy from the Fade, but if I let the energy go slowly enough, or I keep it close to the body, it doesn’t show up. 

“Healing magic is also useful for finding out what’s wrong. It helps me pinpoint what’s blocked and why. That’s how I knew it was a problem with the way that boy’s bone healed. I did have to operate on him to get the pus and infected bone out, but I used healing magic to make sure the bone healed clean and straight and minimize scar tissue. The potion I told them to make will keep the infection from reappearing. He should be fine to walk in a week, but I couldn’t let the parents know that. Too suspicious. They might stop making the potion for him if they think he’s well, but he needs it.” 

The act of talking was helping Raviathan calm down. Duncan could feel that in the way the boy continued to loosen. He rubbed Raviathan’s back and kissed his hair. The lad had risked himself with every patient he saw. Maker please let this boy live. “I didn’t see you make the gestures to heal yourself.”

“Don’t need to gesture when the healing is internal, only if I need to project the spell. To diagnose someone, I just need to touch them.” 

“What else do you know?”

“I also know glyph magic.” 

“What is glyph magic?” 

Raviathan shifted against the old warrior into a more comfortable position. The night was bitterly cold. Raviathan felt strange resting on a road, and one made of stone no less. It made Raviathan feel less real in a way, like he was temporary. There was something about roads that demanded movement, that only ghosts stopped like this, frozen as they were from the rest of the world. In an odd way, it was like they were rebelling from the road’s insistence, but it continued to pull on him. 

“Solyn told me all magic is written in the Maker’s hand. It’s his will that first gave it shape, and we channel that shape when we use his writing. Whenever I do a complex spell, or a spell that isn’t just raw force, I need to shape the energy. When I move my fingers, I’m writing. You can’t see it, but I do. It’s like lines of light. Glyph magic is the purest form of that, and that’s why you can see the glyphs written in the person’s skin and under them. I can stop someone so they can’t move, help protect a person, or throw back enemies. 

“The other two schools are primal and spiritual. Primal was the fire spell. It’s raw energy, but the stronger versions need to be focused. Primal can be time consuming because I have to pull and build up that energy. Spiritual is a hard school to define, but it essentially deals with energy of a different type. I guess the best way to think of the two schools is one is like Fade energy and the other is the energy of this plane. That…” Raviathan hesitated as he thought about the shriek, and it was Duncan’s calm reassurance that made him continue. “The spell I used first tonight, that was spiritual. I turned the… sh-shhriek’s living energy against itself. Fire is the only spell I know from the primal. Most of my spells are spiritual. Spiritual and creative spells are quiet, so that was easiest to learn in a crowded area like the alienage.” 

That made sense, thought Duncan. He was still trying to get used to the fact he had an apostate curled against him. 

“I didn’t want to say anything earlier about the Fade,” Raviathan said, his breath hitching. “I know why you don’t have the nightmares. I’m protecting you.” 

“Yes.” Duncan closed his stinging eyes against the tireless southern wind. “I’ve known that but how?” 

“In the Fade, I can bring you into my dream so that you aren’t trapped by the demon’s nightmare. It’s not something I thought about, just reaction. Like it’s natural to hold your breath under water.” 

“Demon’s nightmare?”

“They feed off emotion. When we’re weak or under pressure, we’re vulnerable to their influence. That’s what causes nightmares. They pull us into a section of the Fade, compound the emotion they need, and feed.”

Once Raviathan became a Grey Warden and understood what the taint was, they would have to talk again. Would Raviathan still be able to protect him from the nightmares when they both shared the taint? Was this the reason why Grey Wardens couldn’t be married? Would a spouse or lover hide Wardens from the nightmares that signaled the Calling until it was too late? “Can non-mages do that? Protect from nightmares?” 

“Any elf can, but we’re closer to the Fade. That’s why families sleep close together during times of trouble. A demon can pull in one soul, but the more souls that are together, the harder it is for them to lure us. I don’t know about humans. Duncan, you’re the first human I’ve ever really talked to. If you don’t know, how would I?” 

“I haven’t heard of this before. Is it a property of magic then?”

“Apart from Solyn, I’ve never met anyone who was trained in magic. I don’t know what it’s like for other people. Because I’m a mage, I’m better at controlling the Fade. But all elves have a more intense relationship with the Fade.” Raviathan voice cracked. “N-Ness and I shared dreams.” 

“You weren’t just dreaming about her?” 

“Our souls were together in the Fade,” Raviathan said, and Duncan felt the elf tremble. A silvery tear track caught in the moonlight. “There was one we shared often. We were by a lake in a deep forest. I would gather leaves and twigs for her, and she would make them into swans. She could turn the leaves into white feathers and everything. When the she placed a swan in the water, it would come alive. They would rise up, flapping their wings when they took their first breath, then swim about the lake. Duncan, I miss her so much. I’ve been trying not to think about her, but Maker, I miss her. There are times I think about her, and I don’t think I can breathe anymore.” 

“I’m sorry, Rav.” He was sure Raviathan was still crying though there was little indication beyond the elf’s trembling. “All I can say is that she’s safe because of you. It was a great sacrifice, but you saved her.” 

Raviathan nodded but didn’t speak after that. 

The taint was more pervasive, more powerful than any demon. Simply being an elf wouldn’t have stopped the taint induced nightmares, not when the taint came from within Duncan’s own blood. That the lad’s magic was stronger than the taint gave Duncan hope for the coming war against the blight, even if it meant destroying the last bit of peace he had found. Duncan rested his eyes not expecting to fall asleep, but sleep came nonetheless as his head dipped down to rest on the elf. 

 

~o~O~o~

 

The growing light of pre dawn awakened Duncan who looked about, crusty and roughened from the night’s cold wind. If he hadn’t had the elf’s extra heat, he might have woke frozen to the wall. Aside from his numb feet, sore back and neck, he was relatively toasty. He rubbed Raviathan’s back who woke with a little, “mmph?” then stretched. Like a cat, he ended up just as firmly ensconced as before. 

“Wake up.” Duncan said, his voice cracking. Raviathan squirmed in playful annoyance, pretending to ignore him.

“Mmph,” the elf grunted and went back to Duncan’s chest as if he would go back to sleep, eliciting a chuckle from the old warrior. He removed a few pine needles that had remained in Raviathan’s hair, tousled from the wind and sleep. Large blue emerald eyes smiled at him. Raviathan kissed him, a peck on the lips. Though startled, Duncan’s first impression was one of softness, and however strange, the kiss was not entirely unpleasant. 

“Rav,” Duncan began a warning. 

“I’m sorry. I know humans don’t do that. It just felt natural. If it had been Valendrian…” Raviathan sighed. “There are so many new rules to learn. Makes me feel like I’m being twisted and bent into an unnatural shape, like the plants nobles have in their gardens.” 

With regret, Duncan wondered if he had indulged the elf’s affections too much. Raviathan wasn’t going to have him to lean on much longer. Some of the elven habits that made Raviathan and easy companion were going to make his adjustment to the life of a Grey Warden difficult. But then, Raviathan was already adjusting quickly considering how different the world outside the alienage was. “I couldn’t tell last night, but we’re probably only an hour away from Ostagar.” 

There were spots of red on Raviathan’s face where he had been leaning on Duncan’s chest. He nodded, got to his feet with a wince, then helped pull Duncan up. The bed rolls were stowed away, and the two continued on, shivering in the morning frost. 

The movement helped warm stiff muscles though Duncan was sure he was going to have a crick in his neck for the rest of the day. Raviathan coughed to clear his throat then hesitantly asked, “Duncan? Do you think I’m a coward?” 

“What?” he asked looking over at the elf. “No. Cowards don’t threaten armed men or storm heavily guarded estates. Why would you ask that?” 

“It just seems that I’ve done a lot of crying lately.” Raviathan added quietly, “and the shrieks.”

“Ah, my lad, don’t fret over that,” Duncan said resting an arm over Raviathan’s shoulders. “It’s been a tough time for you. Lots of changes and new experiences. Once you’ve found your feet again, I’m sure you’ll feel like your old self. As for the shrieks, those are some of the most terrifying of the four darkspawn types. Their ugly, fast, and vicious. That you killed two, on your own no less, is quite an accomplishment for anyone let alone as your first darkspawn kills. You should be proud of yourself, Rav. The Maker smiled on this land when you were born.” 

A light blush warmed Raviathan’s cheeks. “Thanks, Duncan.” 

The old warrior kept his arm around the elf’s shoulders. It was for warmth as much as anything he told himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end of the second section. Thanks to everyone who has stayed with this story for so long. This story moved so far away from canon I wonder if anyone feels cheated out of a Blight retelling. I just might have a record for writing 160k on what is technically the first hour of the game. Ah, well. There are still going to be additions and a few change ups in Part I but not nearly as extreme as these last two sections. 
> 
> I just need a moment to thank a few people who have helped me along the way: keolah, my brilliant and patient proofreader (along with being a warm and cuddly friend); ItsADrizzet, my lovely beta who has to put up with a ton of my angst; and Oleander's One for stepping in to beta on occasion. 
> 
> And thanks to everyone who hit the kudos button and gave reviews. :D You make all the time and effort that gets put into this story worth it.


	26. Plans and Tactics – Echoes

“South of the fortress is where the main battles have been fought and where the bulk of the hoard lies. The Grey Wardens’ encampment is in the lower wing of the fortress. You’ll join them once you’re officially part of the Order.” Raviathan was listening to Duncan but couldn’t help look up and about at the old fortress. It was possibly the largest structure he had ever seen up close. It was like they were rats crawling through a human’s house as they entered the wide entrance from the Imperial Highway. Massive arches, some broken with age, rose overhead, casting long shadows into the keep. The land was slowly retaking the fortress with the speed of a glacier. Enough earth had swept up from the valley below that vegetation and even trees had found a home for their roots. The trees were over a century old, and as they grew unchecked, their roots would gradually pull the stone of the fortress apart. 

The sharp sound of steel horse shoes on stone clattered from further inside the fortress wing as a small band of warriors rode towards them. Duncan was clearly surprised to see the familiar fair face approach them just as they got to the entrance at Fort Ostagar. The lead human’s heavy golden armor clanked as he rode with careless enthusiasm to meet them. “Ho there, Duncan,” the pale blonde man said, swinging down easily from his heavily armored destrier. One of the mounted guards dismounted so he could hold the reigns of the king’s horse. 

“King Cailan,” Duncan said recovering himself, and Raviathan thought he heard a note of discomfort. “I hope all has been going well in my absence.” 

“You’ve been gone for months now. I almost suspected you were skipping out on the blight.” The king’s voice sounded like champagne, light and fine yet essentially frivolous. It made him sound younger than his years and was at odds with his large heavy plate armor and imposing stature. 

“Not if I could help it, Your Majesty,” Duncan replied with solemn dignity. Raviathan wasn’t sure, but it seemed that Duncan sounded sad. What had caused that? 

“Good that you arrived when you did,” the king continued blithely. “We’ve won every battle against the darkspawn since you’ve been gone, four in all, and expect another attack shortly. This will be a glorious battle with a full horde, and if you’re right about the archdemon, the first blight to touch Fereldan soil. We’ll show all the rest of Thedas our might when we put an end to the darkspawn in such record time.” The king immediately set to posing with Duncan as if for an audience. Cailan cut an impressive figure with his long golden hair matching his armor. He was quite handsome too, pale with a shadow of dark stubble and clear blue eyes, but Raviathan got the distinct impression of an eager puppy rather than a king. “The other Wardens told me you found a promising new recruit, and from an alienage no less. I take it this is he?” 

Duncan’s dark if weary voice seemed impressive, as if it had more gravity, next to Cailan’s light tenor. It set their ages apart quickly and made the king sound more like a boy than ever. What had caused this change in Duncan? Wasn’t he looking forward to meeting with the King again? It was and honor after all, but then maybe he was use to it. “Allow me to introduce you, Your Majesty.” 

“There’s no need to be so formal, Duncan,” the king replied lightly. “We’re to be comrades in arms after all. Your name… let’s see, what was it? Riv- something? Rivtan. Yes, that’s it.” 

Raviathan averted his gaze down in deference. The king’s presence hadn’t been a problem as long as they discussed other things, but when he became the king’s focus, he felt a wash of nerves. He wished he could keep his defiance and say something withering like, ‘I am no friend of yours, human lord’, but this was a king. An actual king. The king. Nobles took no notice of elves as rightful people, never bothered with names, and this was the king. The whole thing was far too strange. If a dragon fell out of the sky Raviathan would have felt more normal. “Thank you. Yes, Your Majesty. Um, everyone calls me Rav.” Oh Maker, had he just thanked the king for not knowing his name? Stupid, stupid, stupid. If Shianni could see him, she’d laugh her… and then Raviathan remembered that her laughter was gone. 

The king had an easy chuckle which did nothing for Raviathan’s nerves. “From where do you hail, Rav?” 

Everything about this seemed terribly awkward. “The Denerim alienage.” 

“Tell me,” Cailan said with innocence pouring out of his guileless blue eyes, “what is it like? My guards all but forbid me from going there.” 

Raviathan’s cheeks warmed. King or no, this man was a shem, and shems didn’t care about his kind. As a king, he should know the state of his people, and all he did was play at war. Raviathan knew there was no reason for the man to lie, but that he could have such an easy disregard for the troubles and injustices of elves reminded him of everything he hated about shems. He should know how bad it is when his own guards, the men who supposedly took orders from him, would not allow him to set foot inside the high walls. As if he truly wanted to go. They’re all hypocrites. Except for Duncan. “My people eat rats to keep from a slow, starving death. As a child I watched guards kill my kin, defenseless women and babes, with impunity.” 

“I… Maker’s breath. I had no idea.” The king’s astonishment was a vitriolic victory for Raviathan. Let the shem pose some more when he couldn’t hide from the accusation. 

“Why should you? How can you know what you never see? We live in poverty and despair, and no one cares.” He still couldn’t look at the king. Duncan shot Raviathan a warning look. He was overstepping his bounds badly by instigating with the king. Rage flared in Raviathan’s sea storm eyes for an instant. Looking at his mentor, Raviathan relented, pursing his lips and looking away. He respected Duncan enough to let this battle go, but he was glad to feel his spine again. 

Duncan turned to the king. “Your Majesty, we should discuss events at Highever.” 

Cailan shook his head, his lips pressed together. “We received word a fortnight ago. Howe thinks he can get away with this because of a blight. He’ll know the King’s justice soon as we are able.”

“Only a fortnight?” Duncan mouth opened in shock. “This happened months ago. Surely someone would have spoken of it.” 

“One would think,” replied Cailan, the shadow of distrust marking an otherwise innocent face. “The messengers we have received were from the lords taking in refugees but not a word from Highever. It’s as if the whole of the teyrnir has disappeared into the Fade. Howe is biding time, but for what purpose, I cannot say. He must know his actions cannot stand and is delaying the inevitable.” 

“Then you do not know of the fate of the Couslands?” 

“Did Howe not take them as hostages?”

“All the Couslands at Highever were killed.” Duncan frowned, putting a hand to his lips as he thought. 

“What? You know this?” Cailan’s eyes went wide. “Even Fergus’ wife and son?”

“I was there, Your Majesty. Howe’s soldiers committed the most barbarous actions.” 

Cailan walked to the ledge of the fortress to view the wide, fog shrouded valley below. Behind him, the guards glanced at each other nervously. “Fergus made it here a month ago, one of the first to answer our call to arms. He has been scouting in the Wilds for weeks now, and we haven’t heard back from him. I’ve no way to get news to him.” He turned back to Duncan. “Are you sure all were killed?” 

“Your Majesty, I saw this with my own eyes. Bryce and Eleanor was killed in front of me by Howe’s men. I had to make my escape before I could confirm Aedan Cousland, but he had sustained mortal wounds when we were separated. The rest were killed in their beds.” 

“At least one is still alive, and let’s hope for their youngest.” Cailan shook his head regretfully. “I don’t see how Rendon plans to get away with this. Unless he suspects we will be too weakened from fighting with the darkspawn. He will be in for a great surprise then.” 

“Is Urien Kendells in the camp?” 

“Kendells?” Puzzlement at the question caused a slight frown to form between the king’s smooth brow. “He died in the first battle. We sent a messenger to Denerim to have Vaughan come in his place, but apparently there are bandits or some other problem keeping them from getting through as well.” 

“His son Vaughan is dead, Your Majesty.” 

The king looked at him for a stunned second. “I go to war and suddenly the whole country goes mad. Pity about Vaughan. A little rough in my estimation but loyal.” Cailan waved a hand. “Appointing a new arl is something for Anora to deal with. I will hear more about this matter later, but for now we have a war to attend to.” 

‘A little rough’? Raviathan watched the king carefully. Cailan had already moved on from the news of Highever and Denerim. Raviathan wasn’t sure if this was a good measure of the man or not. It could be that Cailan focused the task at hand, but the attack on Highever was a major event that he was disregarding. Two months and little word meant the plot probably reached to this camp, that the king had enemies who were keeping him in ignorance. How could he not care? Did he even realize the implications or that? Of course, there was little Cailan could do about the Couslands here. It made sense to keep his mind on the coming battles, but a whole teyrn family had been killed. That would have a huge impact on a good portion of the country. Perhaps the king had more depth than he let on. So far childish and thoughtless were the main adjectives Raviathan applied to him. Fear and uncertainty tightened Raviathan’s shoulders. Well intentioned or not, he would not trust this fool. 

“I’m sorry to cut this short, but I should return to my tent,” Cailan said. “After being in the company of the Wardens all morning, Loghain is probably a hair’s breadth away from sending out a search party. Likely he means to bore me with more of his maps and figures. The man’s fascination with them is endless.” 

Duncan said with impatience starting to enter his voice, “Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week. He believes the attacks from the Avvars near an end.” 

“Ha!” Cailan replied with a smirk turning his face hard. “Eamon just wants in on the glory.” 

The stern look Duncan was giving Cailan spoke more of his frustration than his voice. “Eamon has never been one to seek glory, Your Majesty.” 

“He has to do something,” Cailan said. “The Bannorn thinks well of him, if they think of him at all. But come the spring’s Landsmeet he won’t have the persuasive powers he needs to raise more men for the Avvar attacks unless he proves he has some military might. The barbarians have apparently not warmed up to his endless compromises after all these years. And for that, he needs to make a name for himself here.” 

Before he could talk himself out of it, Raviathan blurted out, “Was Howe expected to bring forces here?” 

Cailan turned to him in surprise, but Raviathan read only interest in his face and not the derision he was used to from humans. “Well, yes. They were due a month ago, but we thought they had been delayed because of bad weather. Though with the coup at Highever, there shall be no trace of Howe or his forces here.” 

“And you’re planning of disposing him?” 

The king cocked his head at the elf. “In all likelihood. I certainly cannot allow this sort of treasonous action to go without reprimand.” Raviathan forced himself to not squirm under the king’s scrutiny. “Why do you ask?” 

“I…” don’t lose your courage now, “I know little enough of these matters, Your Majesty. It just seems that he has given you a reason to take control of his army given that he has committed treason and unwarranted aggression. He’s also a threat now as he controls the northern border and therefore most of Ferelden’s trade. With his forces stretched between the arling and teyrnir, it shouldn’t be hard to take him, especially if Highever’s banns are resisting Howe. When the Orlesians arrive here, you could send a portion of your own force to take him. Once disposed, his army can fight the darkspawn here then to Arl Eamon’s in the spring if he needs soldiers. You wouldn’t have to return the soldiers until new rulers are settled in Amaranthine and Highever. Then you’ll have Arl Eamon’s gratitude without having to sacrifice your own men. If Fergus is alive, a powerful teyrn’s gratitude as well for restoring his lands.” 

The king watched him for a moment with his mouth parted in surprise. Raviathan kept his gaze focused on the strange demonic face in the king’s golden armor wondering just how dumb he had sounded. Stupid, little elf around all these shems. What had he been thinking? 

The king threw back his head and laughed. Raviathan looked down, mortified that he had spoken up to this man. Maker he was a stupid, little elf. He had a sudden desire to hide his ears and slink away. Why didn’t he just hold his tongue? 

He was surprised when the king clapped him on the back with enough force to sting him through his armor. Raviathan’s rough armor didn’t do much against plate gauntlets, but he stood his ground. Cailan’s heavy hand remained on his shoulder, its weight adding to his shame. “Duncan, I should steal this one from you and make him my adviser.” Thrown off by the response, Raviathan wasn’t sure if he was being ridiculed or not. He kept his head down and decided his mouth should be kept firmly shut for a good year as penance. “You can spare him, can’t you?”

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Duncan said with a respectful bow of his neck, “but I hold the Right of Conscription on this one.” 

“Tell me,” Cailan said, returning his attention to the elf, “where did you study?” 

Raviathan couldn’t stop the impulse to cross his arms over his stomach though he had tried hard not to. So he was being ridiculed. The human’s hand was still on his shoulder, and he wondered if this were to be the first time he’d have one of his ears pulled. The anticipation of such a sharp and intimate pain made him tight. This is why elves didn’t fight back or even pull away in self defense. Humiliation held them still, and knowing he was too frozen to act made the humiliation that much worse. “I have not studied, Your Majesty.” 

“Ah-,” Cailan started but cut off, watching the elf in keen interest. He smiled then. “Of course. You just said you were from an alienage. How did you learn of politics and tactics then?” 

Raviathan bent his head down a little more wishing he could crawl away. Kings weren’t suppose to be cruel, he thought. Why couldn’t this one let the lesson go. Doesn’t he have better things to do than draw out this punishment? “Duncan has been teaching me history on the way here, Your Majesty.” 

“The way here? Surely the journey has been less than a fortnight.” 

Raviathan was going to apologize hoping that would end this when Duncan spoke up. “Your Majesty, I’m afraid he must prepare for the ceremony to join our Order.” 

“Just as well,” Cailan said with mirth still in his voice. “His pretty face would be far too much of a distraction for the court. Then you should make haste in making him an official member. Not only might I still try to steal him away, we have a battle to fight tonight.” 

“Tonight?” Duncan asked. 

Cailan finally withdrew his hand. Raviathan felt the phantom weight of the golden gauntlet remain as if his own burning face weren’t reminder enough of his stupid tongue. “Your second and a few of the scouts confirmed it this morning. You’ll reconvene with them first, I’m sure, but then Loghain will want to discuss strategy. Considering what the Wardens have said, it’s sure to be a glorious battle.” 

“You seem very confident of victory,” Duncan said coolly. 

Raviathan thought winning four battles sounded impressive, but Cailan’s disregard for strategy made Raviathan nervous. The darkspawn were terrifying and not to be left to chance. That was the second time the man had spoken of glory. In Raviathan’s brief experience, glory seekers got themselves in trouble. He hoped the king was an excellent fighter to make up for being foolhardy and incautious. But then perhaps this king was a good enough fighter that he didn’t find the darkspawn as deeply unsettling as Raviathan did. 

“Overconfident some would say,” Cailan said blowing off any concerns with a smirk. “I’m not even sure if this is a true blight. There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas. We see no sign of an archdemon.” 

“Disappointed, Your Majesty?” Raviathan knew he hadn’t imagined Duncan’s disapproval. The relationship between the king and Warden-Commander was a complex one. Joining or not, Raviathan wondered just how much Duncan would be willing to tell him.

“Blights are the makers of legends!” Cailan’s blue eyes lit up, either not noticing Duncan’s tone or ignoring it. “What would you not give to be the real life heroes of fables, your name forever spoken with reverence? The Grey Wardens fighting with a king against a tainted god. This is what people dream of their entire lives, and we may have that chance!” 

Raviathan wanted nothing more than to get away from this man. Cailan was scaring him, and Raviathan had to fight the urge to slink behind Duncan. This was the leader of his nation? As if the ground had suddenly shifted under him, Raviathan realized how tenuous his place in the world was, how fragile his nation to the whims of men. Laws and nobility had always seemed like bars of iron, immutable and enduring. He and his mother slipped between the bars of law on occasion, but their solidity gave form and structure to his life. Had the establishments of his society truly been an illusion all these years? Like the violation of the alienage, the stone walls that made up Raviathan’s world cracked. 

The heat left Cailan’s face when he turned back to his horse. “Ah well. If there is not blight, this will have to do. Now I must go before Loghain grinds his teeth away. Farewell, Grey Wardens.” 

Following Duncan’s lead, Raviathan crossed his arms over his chest and gave a small bow in salute. Cailan remounted with no assistance even though he was in heavy plate armor. He expertly twisted the large beast around and raced away at a full gallop followed by his guards. Heavy muscle and armor added to the horse’s mass, the movement making Raviathan’s stomach clench in sudden panic. Again he was reminded how small and frail he was.

Glad to be alone again, Raviathan said quietly, “He said this wasn’t a true blight. If an archdemon hasn’t appeared, how do you know?” 

Now that they were here and Raviathan was still firmly set on becoming a Grey Warden, Duncan let him know more than he had ever told a recruit. “Part of being a Grey Warden means that we receive portents of such things.” 

Duncan indicated with a gentlemanly wave of his hand for Raviathan to continue down the path. They walked together into the first courtyard of the fortress. It was outdoors with trees about. Platforms to the left overlooked the mountains and hazy Korcari Wilds far below. A great tower with flying buttresses stood high and lonely to the right. Raviathan wondered about the purpose of such a tower. It was less stable than ground buildings. The Tevinters had built this place a thousand years ago, and if it was still standing, it only served to remind Raviathan his own ignorance. 

“Despite the victories so far, the darkspawn hoard grows larger with each passing day. We are quickly becoming outnumbered. I know there is an archdemon behind this, as do all the Grey. But I can only warn the king. It is up to him to act with wisdom.” 

Raviathan shook his head. “I will not say this to another,” he said quietly, “but the king seems a fool.” 

“Beware that you do not speak ill of the king,” Duncan whispered back. “We were only just allowed back into Ferelden after a two century exile. Fool or not, we need his support, and you can never be completely certain whose ears are around.” 

“Of course, Duncan. What about the other Wardens though? Shouldn’t they be sending in reinforcements?” 

“The Wardens of Orlais promised the wolf’s share of their numbers, but they have long to travel to reach us. They should be at the boarder soon. Until then, and we must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain’s army to make up the rest.” 

There was that name again. Loghain. Raviathan’s father would probably know who this man was while he had a few day of history lessons to catch up. Raviathan wanted to get the measure this general to see if there was at least some intelligent influence to make up for the king’s foolishness. Maker please don’t let him be another glory hound. 

“What about the Wardens of other nations?” 

Duncan murmured deep in his throat. “They know of the danger but have shown little willingness to help us thus far. As I have told you of the previous four blights, they take decades to defeat and have decimated nations. Our other closest allies, Nevarra and the Free Marches, are both strengthening their numbers for what they think will be the inevitable invasion north.” 

“Why wouldn’t they help us? If the blight is stopped here, then their lands might go completely unharmed.” 

“The movements of an archdemon lead horde are difficult to predict. As the darkspawn move underground, they can strike anywhere. Unlike a regular army, their movements are next to impossible to track. The Warden-Commanders of Nevarra and the Free Marches fear for their nation’s safety if they are left without their Wardens’ protection.” 

“Sounds like they’re abandoning us,” Raviathan said sourly. “I thought Wardens believed themselves separate from the nations in which they’re stationed.” 

“They do and they don’t. Unfortunately, these decisions are almost never black and white. Though we are supposed to remain neutral, we are not immune from the influence of politics. In truth, they may think this nation is already doomed due to our low number of Wardens. I am not entirely certain of their motives, but I believe they think it a waste of resources to travel here when they can fortify their positions with more ease.” 

“So they leave us to die in what maybe a hopeless battle.” That might be good strategy, but Raviathan thought those Wardens were showing unconscionable cowardliness. 

“Well, I’m not giving up so easily.” Raviathan smiled, resisting the urge to take Duncan’s hand. Human lands, human rules. “We have the king’s support along with the remaining teyrn and many arls. Do not be so quick to judge the other Wardens. Long range views, Rav.” 

Raviathan was tired from the long journey. Though he was more than half Duncan’s age, the human seemed to be so much stronger than he. The journey hadn’t fazed him at all. Raviathan knew his own tiredness was part of the reason for his bad judgment. He had been brash with the king and without cause. The king, for all his glory mongering, had shown at least a passing interest in his people. Perhaps his judgments had been a little too harsh, and Duncan had told him to be patient. Raviathan nodded in understanding. 

Duncan continued distractedly, “I need to meet with the other Wardens first. Get a meal and explore the camp as you will. Jory and Daveth should be around somewhere. I’ll send someone for you when it’s time.” 

It was odd seeing Duncan like this. After so many days travelling together, this was another side of the man, the Warden-Commander and leader of men. Raviathan supposed it was inevitable, and the last thing he wanted to do was add to his mentor’s burdens when he was clearly pressed. “Alright, Duncan,” Raviathan said injecting more spirit into his voice than he felt. 

Perhaps the tone sounded too false, but for whatever reason it caught Duncan’s attention. Duncan paused before the wide bridge that linked the east wing to the west to clap a hand on Raviathan’s shoulder. “It’ll be alright, Rav.” 

Struck anew with the knowledge that he no longer had to hide from Duncan, Raviathan grabbed the old warrior’s hand and pulled him into a sheltered alcove. Raviathan reached up to his puzzled mentor, focused the light of magic inside him, and let that heat penetrate deep into Duncan’s neck. Duncan’s eyes became heavy lidded—his lips parted slightly—as heat and healing loosened the strained muscles of his neck. 

Next, Raviathan took one of Duncan’s hands in both of his, setting energy to snap through them. Duncan winced. “What is this?” 

“I know it feels strange. Just another moment.” 

When finished, Raviathan began on Duncan’s other hand. The old warrior gazed at his electrified hand, flexing it in wonder. His knuckles no longer bulged with arthritis. 

Even when Raviathan had made a fool of himself in front of the king, Duncan had rescued him. You’re a good man, Duncan. Whatever you need, I’ll do for you. “I’ll be ready when you need me.” Duncan gave his shoulder a final squeeze, the strength of the old warrior a comfort, then left across the bridge. Raviathan watched his mentor’s broad back for a moment before turning his attention to the fortress. 

Alone for the first time in over a week, Raviathan looked over the fortress trying to take it all in. Even the bridge was massive. It spanned the deep gorge with only a few marks of age. One large hunk had been taken out of a section, but the rest seemed solid. Though he knew the bridge had been there for ages, the idea of crossing it made him dizzy. He had no great fear of heights, but the sheer plunge to the rocks far below added to the queasy tightness of his stomach. The highest he had been was the alienage wall at night with tall buildings on either side. Most buildings in Denerim were no more than three stories. This was a vast plunge of over a hundred feet. 

Deciding to tackle that obstacle later, Raviathan walked about the overgrown courtyard. He gathered a few bunches of wild elfroot on reflex then preceded to a platform. Taking a long, steadying breath, he looked over the side. He wrapped his arms over his stomach as he gazed over the valley below. 

What a change his life had taken. He had rarely left Denerim and then only a few miles out, and now all this. Aside from the Highway, the fortress was his first taste of Tevinter craftsmanship. On impulse, his hand traced over the stone of the low wall separating him from the steep cliff and valley below. It was rough and weathered, its texture grainy as the softer particles of stone wore away. This stone had been here for a millennium, from before Andraste was born. The weight of all those years, the numerous winters and summers, the harsh wind constantly beating at it, the freezes constricting the stone, the endless years of rain, and yet here it stood. The glacial southern wind gushed up, blowing his hair back. He squinted, unmoved by the force of it and thought of his mother and aunt. They had been slaves in Tevinter and had escaped. The nation capable of building this eternal construct could not hold them. He smiled at that. Like the elfroot, they found a way to thrive in the harshest of environments. They had been tough women, made of iron. 

The moment’s reprieve had calmed him, and he moved back to the interior. Spying a half buried chest abandoned behind a low wall, he picked the lock. He hadn’t worked at locks in years and found the practice useful. Nothing much inside though. A few coins he pocketed. The guards took no notice of him as he explored. He chatted up one guarding the tower and learned a bit about the history of the fortress. There was nothing special going on. Some clearing out of the basement levels. Probably rats and the like. 

Feeling a little more normal after the conversation, Raviathan made his way to the bridge and slowly walked across it, staying in the very middle. He kept his eyes focused on the stone. The bridge vibrated slightly in the strong southern wind. Solid ground it was not, and his stomach fluttered with each gust of wind. He was feeling very small around all these humans and the large fortress that seemed to block out the sky. He eyed the large chunk of stone taken out as he passed. The missing chunk was the size of the king’s horse. If fortresses could talk.

A guard with a kind voice greeted him when he reached the other side. Raviathan felt awkward when the guard recognized him as Duncan’s recruit, making him wonder what Duncan had written about him. The guard didn’t give a fig that Raviathan was an elf, and, despite his dislike of humans, Raviathan found the man easy to talk to. The discussion of Ostagar’s history was a relief after the bridge and isolation he felt. He hadn’t realized how attached he had become to the weathered human until that moment. Aside from a few trips around the city, Raviathan had rarely been on his own before. 

Bidding goodbye to the guard, Raviathan continued into the much busier courtyards of the fortress. On a high platform to his right was a priestess giving the Chant of Light to a group of gathered soldiers below. 

“All men are the Work of our Maker’s Hands, From the lowest slaves, To the highest kings. Those who bring harm, Without provocation to the least of His children, Are hated and accursed by the Maker.” 

Feeling instant revulsion for words, Raviathan turned left past large tent pavilions. What did that woman know of harm or pain? She sat in a Chantry and studied, or at the most tended to another, but that wasn’t her pain. She could go on all day with theories and pretty words, but she knew nothing, so her words were hollow. And the Maker. For all his ‘accusing’, for all his power, great harm was done to the lowest, the weakest and most powerless. When his people suffered for centuries, what good was the Maker’s hatred? For all the Chantry’s talk, they were also responsible for keeping his people down. He knew verses of Shartan and why they had been stricken. Hypocritical bitches.

He stopped to watch a lecture a haggard captain was giving to a round of soldiers. To his surprise, they were gathered around the corpse of a genlock. At least it looked like a genlock according to the description Duncan gave him. The creature wasn’t rotting. There were no flies or insects, no smell of decay except for the sickly bile stench that had also accompanied the darkspawn from the other night. Raviathan edged in closer, getting a warning look from the captain. 

Raviathan had time to study the face of a darkspawn as he hadn’t before during the attack. The genlock was short, had pointed ears, and greenish brown skin like the sewage water left to sit for months in the alienage. Two rows of corrupt, pointed teeth jutted out from its death grimace. Maybe they looked that way alive too. There wasn’t really a nose, just two slits. The rubbery looking skin hadn’t rotted though. All the lines and creases, the bulbous jutting of its maw, aside from the cuts of a blade, was how it had looked in life. Were its eyes the milky white of cataracts from life or deterioration from death? Nothing else had decayed so it was more likely what they looked like alive. 

Taint roiled off the corpse like a miasma. The monstrous appearance of the corpse counted for only part of Raviathan’s nausea. Though not exactly painful, Raviathan felt like he was being twisted by the profound unnaturalness the darkspawn radiated. His blood stung as though mixed with acid. How could the other soldiers remain so impassive? Maybe they were used to the taint by now, or maybe they were more disciplined than he was. How had they fared in their first encounter? 

The shriek had been much more terrifying in the darkness. It had been tall, gangly, moved like nightmares made real. It screamed like rusted hinges, high and piercing through his nerves. Last night, the darkness that lay at the core of all that was evil in this world had grown claws that reached for him, slashed at him, sought his heart. He had killed them. 

This thing, as ugly as it was, was killable. Some of the fear that had been crawling inside Raviathan drained away. The more he looked at the creature, the calmer he became. Foulness radiated off it even in death. Raviathan felt disgusted by the black blood that had caked underneath the body. It was repellent, and he would remain cautious, but his fear was leaving. 

The captain finished his lectures, and the guards started to break up into small groups to talk or go on to other business. A young, blonde woman stayed to stare at the corpse. Trying to be unobtrusive on the woman’s meditation, Raviathan said, “Disgusting, isn’t it.” 

She answered without turning. “Yeah. I’ve never seen one up close.” 

“I did last night. It was taller than this one. Had black skin.” Her gaze was fixed on the monster. Raviathan took a moment to study her. She had a square face and thin lips but was not unattractive. If her straight hair were a little longer than the page boy style, it would soften her features. She was okay now, but hers was the kind of face that would grow more striking as she aged, when maturity would make her handsome. “Are you afraid?” 

She didn’t answer at first. “I… it is terrible. Isn’t it?” 

He tried to soothe her, talking to her in a voice he would use to lure out frightened kittens. “It’s normal to be afraid. There’s no shame in that.”

“But we have to fight these things.” She shifted her weight. “I can’t be afraid.” 

His voice became lower, a bit more dark. “Feel your fear. Understand what it is. This thing is terrifying. You want to live, and that is not shameful.” He let the words sink in. She stared at the corpse with more intensity, but she was listening. “Now look closer at it. It can die. You can stand up to something like this. Every time you cut one of these monsters down, you clean the world of that bit of evil. Bit by bit, we will rid Ferelden of these monsters. Feel your fear, and let it go. You are stronger.” 

He could see her gaze become more resolute as she let his words take hold. Finally she squared her shoulders and turn to look at him with a confident smile. The smile vanished in an ‘oh’ of surprise. He raised his eyebrows in question. She said, “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were an elf.” 

He gave her a half grin. “I’m still the same person you were talking to a minute ago.” 

To his surprise, her smile returned. “Yes, of course.” 

Giving her a courteous nod, Raviathan left to explore the roofless hall that ran behind the various platforms and broken arbors facing the wilds. Had the dwarves worked for the Tevinter to create such a place? It was gradually becoming a ruin and would become so in next few centuries if there was no intervention. He didn’t know much of fortresses or structures or the tactics employed to either defend or attack one. He was sure Ferelden didn’t keep a regular contingent here. Why had the Chasind not taken it? He was again surprised when the blonde jogged to catch up to him. 

“I didn’t mean to be rude. I’ve just not seen many elves. You look like a fighter.” 

“I know a bit of swordplay.”

One of the tall columns had fallen and was leaning against its fellow from the other side. Raviathan looked about. For all the dirt and vegetation, the ruins were holding up spectacularly well. Roots were able to break apart stone given enough years. It was amazing that these ruins had stood so long. They passed one large, rounded alcove where a woman in priest robes was bent on her knees, praying fervently to the hazy sun in the eastern sky. Other than that, they were completely alone in this secluded area. She said, “You really helped me out there.” 

“It was nothing.” Raviathan watched her, saw the tight glances as her eyes constantly roamed over the fort. Despite her new found confidence she was trying to project, she was still terrified. “Have you seen much battle?” 

“I have. A bit.” She was young, but she did not look inexperienced. “I’m from Gwaren. One of Loghain’s army.” 

The pathway curved around a low wall but broke off shortly after. Raviathan was saved from looking at the long drop by a rocky outcropping. “Really? What can you tell me about Loghain?” 

Her eyes lit up. “The Teyrn? You know of course he’s the Hero of River Dane.” Raviathan didn’t but let her go on anyway. It would be a simple enough thing to piece together Loghain’s past from other sources not so enamored with the man. That he commanded such loyalty alone was a mark of his character. They sat on the low wall as she recounted the battles she had participated in against the Chasind to the south. Much to Raviathan’s relief, the teyrn sounded like he was a brilliant tactician. 

As she continued on recounting some of his more historical battles and the tactical plays behind them, Raviathan gave a mental prayer to keep Nesiara safe. He had so far abstained, in part due to the pace Duncan set as they travelled, but mostly in remembrance of his marriage. He wanted to stay chaste for a time to honor her, but as he watched the woman before him, he let that plan go. His wife was gone, and there was no getting her back. He could not make her a whore by trying to keep her but without the respectability of marriage. Ness had been wiser about that. 

Battle was coming. Life was too short. He stood to get the woman’s attention. For this woman it all started with the eyes. Let his intention show, the desire, and she would be his. She stopped, watching him with wide eyes. His fingertips caressed her jaw. When she didn’t stop him, he leaned in to kiss the corner behind her jaw and let his lips brush down her neck. 

“What…?” 

“Say no if you will,” Raviathan breathed the words against her neck. “We can part now, if you like.” He kissed her neck, trailed his lips to the skin behind her ear. “Seems to me that you’re interested. Let’s let our fear go together.” 

The blonde warrior stuttered, “I… but someone might s-see us.” 

Calm emerald and azure eyes met her hazel ones. They were fine by human standards, and he was getting use to not seeing the flash or more brilliant coloration typical of elven eyes. He smiled, letting his voice turn intimate. “No one will see us. Just you and me.” 

“I…”

He kissed the corner of her mouth. “We are to battle soon. Let’s take our pleasures. Let’s have this moment. When you want to stop, we’ll stop.” He nuzzled her ear, so strange in its small roundness, and ran his fingers through her hair. He would go only this far. She had to be the one to make the next move. It had to be her choice. 

She asked nervously, “Are…are you sure?” 

“Yes,” he said low into her ear. She slid down behind the wall to the stone below. Fear was driving her to seek release. It was easy to make her give in. Raviathan knelt in front of her and took off his poncho and leather skirting. It was too cold to bother with the rest of his leather armor. Apparently she could stand it better and had unfastened her scale armor plating, letting it fall with a clank on the stone. Raviathan helped her remove the padding and shirt underneath. Her breasts fell loose once freed from the constraints. There were pink impressions along her torso from the armor. 

Not pausing to take in the differences, he took a large pale areola in his mouth. Her breasts were huge and weighty. Her whole body was. He had never been with a human before, and her thick body surprised him. She trailed her fingers through his hair as he teased and sucked her nipple. The nub had gone high in his mouth, like candy for his tongue. Her hands worked clumsily at the catches for the rest of her armor. 

She was a warrior and in good shape, but he was use to the willowy bodies of elven women. She was proportional for a human, but her hips and breasts were larger than he expected. Would human bodies be similar enough to elves? Would he measure up? He released her breast to look down now that she was exposed to her knees. The armor shin guards were still in place, her pants pushed to her knees, but the rest of her was open. He stared at the patch of light brown hair over her sex. He didn’t know what to make of it. “Is this normal?” He touched the thick, crinkly hair. “For humans?” 

The woman was no whore despite how quickly she had taken to him. Abashed by the question, some of her desire left, and she started covering herself with her hands. “Yes. We all have that.” 

No strumpet either. Though obviously not a virgin, this sort of quick sex was not her regular behavior. She was afraid of the coming battle he reminded himself. Be gentle. She was actually quite sweet. He took the hand she used to cover her sex and lifted it to his lips. “Don’t hide,” he said low and soothing. “You’re beautiful.” He caressed the secretive hair then kissed her cheek. “Don’t be ashamed,” he whispered in her ear. He let her read his eyes as he said, “You are beautiful.” He caressed her cheek. “Never doubt it.” She was relaxing again, and he kissed her on the neck. 

As unexpected as it was, the hair was interesting. He removed the arm covering her breasts and took the other nipple between his lips. Releasing her hand, he slid his fingers up and down her spine and continued to work the nipple. Soft skin puckered under his lips. She was heating up again. He placed his palm along her lower hair and slipped two fingers inside her flesh. She was hot and getting moist. He hoped humans and elves weren’t that different, that she still had that nub would make her body peak. The hand caressing her spine lowered to cup a rounded buttock. He squeezed to pull the flesh of her legs apart, and… there it was. His fingers glided over the little nub causing her flesh to wetten, her body to sink and fully open for him. 

Satisfied that she would find release with him, he shuffled behind her and unhitched his leggings. If he were very different, he didn’t want to know. Not now at least. He pushed on her back, and she leaned against the low wall with her hands gripping the top. Her breasts hung as she was spread before him. He took his erection in hand and guided himself along the slightly pebbly texture of her sex. He kissed her back, thankful to have found such a willing woman, to feel again that heat between a woman’s legs. 

Using his hand to guide, he pushed until he found her entrance. He paused at the resistance of her flesh to savor the moment. She was hot and wet, murmuring low in her throat. He leaned his head back to concentrate on that glorious feeling before sliding in with a low groan. She constricted against him, wonderfully tight. He held her wide hips to brace as he started pumping. Maker, she felt good. Her larger body and curves were so different than anything he had known. 

She was panting, breathy grunts greeting him, pushing against him eagerly. His hands explored the curves of her body. One hand cupped a quivering breast. He squeezed the hard nub of a nipple between two fingers as his other hand moved down so he could touch her hair again. Even in the cold morning she was warm to the touch. His fingers spread her open and she whimpered as the cool air caressed her sensitive skin. He loved the growing ache that kept building as he pushed into her again and again. He thrust harder, working her faster as he started to rub around that little nub of nerves teasing her. He pressed his fingers deeper, and her round ass pushed back, welcoming him. Her cries took on more urgency, and she bent down low, spreading herself wide so he could move faster. She moaned, “Oh please. Oh Maker please!” 

At her cry he sped up. Let it last a little longer. Her voice was good. Her flesh was hot. He needed this release. All the fear and pain of the past weeks needed an exit. He looked down to see his cock, slick with her fluid, disappear inside her flesh. Shame tightened him, turning his desire into a burning ache. I’m sorry, Ness. You always deserved better. He groaned deep as he took the woman before him with a feral need. His mind wailed, you always deserved better. 

The blonde warrior’s body quivered and squirmed against him. He held on as she gasped and pushed back compulsively to take him. He thrust fast as his fingers worked that little knot of nerves pushing her orgasm hard. She writhed with harsh panting groans. Her hands were white knuckled as she clasped the wall as if she were going to fall off. Once she stilled with a last rough groan, he gripped her shoulders, in that moment not caring if he hurt her. Ness, I’m sorry. The woman whimpered and shivered again, her heat feeding his own burning ache. Ness. Raviathan closed his eyes at the tightening of his balls, his whole body feeling constricted before release. He pushed in hard a final time. Ness, I’m sorry. 

For now he could let his pain go and was washed in relief. Too much travel, too many changes—it had all been wearing on him. He stayed in her, let the moment of release stay him. I’m sorry, Ness. You deserved better. He exited and stroked her back. Breathlessly he asked, “How do you feel?” 

“Mmm,” she mumbled as she slumped bonelessly on the stone floor. 

He chuckled, kissing her broad back. “I hope that means good.” He stroked her back again before lifting up and relacing his leggings. “Come on. You’ll get cold.” He gathered her armor and helped her back into it then rebelted his armor and weapons. 

She sat back on the wall, watching him with languorous eyes. “I think I need a nap after that.” 

He smiled at her. She really was sweet. Thankful though he was, in his experience women didn’t take gratitude well after sex. He kissed her hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. “Do you feel alright?” 

“Yes,” she smiled dreamily. 

He squeezed her hand then left to pick up the rest of his equipment. “Good luck in the coming battle.” 

“Maker watch over you,” she replied. 

“Maker watch over us all.”


	27. Plans and Tactics – Chants and Stories

Though relaxed after his time with the soldier, depression pressed against Raviathan. His muscles were loose, he was calm, but the familiar shame that had haunted him through childhood was compounded with thoughts of Nesiara. The sound of her crying on the other side of the door when he left the alienage echoed in his memories. His throat tightened as the path before him wavered through unshed tears. Gone were the fears of being thrown out of the alienage, but the disappointment his elders remained in the back of his mind, weighing on him. Worse were the thoughts of what Nesiara would think of him. Would she feel betrayed? How could she not? Raviathan blinked his eyes to clear them then shoved the thoughts away. That life didn’t belong to him anymore. 

Needing another distraction, Raviathan walked back down the deserted pathway in search of a meal. Around the main tent site he washed his hands and was able to get some bread and a bowl of porridge from the army cook. The burly man eyed at him dubiously at first, but Raviathan was armored and armed as no other elf in the camp. In the end the cook shrugged and left Raviathan alone. He found a quiet place to sit and watch the camp while he ate. 

A few other elves ran about delivering messages or items but no one he recognized. A group of warriors were going through a series of exercises with painted mabari. He watched the dogs race and take down standing dummies on command, reminding him of just how powerful the dogs were. Just beyond the platform where the Chantry priestess was still giving her sermon to the group of soldiers, a flash of light from a broken tower base caught his eye. As he looked more carefully, he realized they were mages. 

Raviathan finished his meal quickly and dumped the bowl by the washing area. These would be the first mages he met other than his aunt. He hadn’t expected there to be any here. Fear tingled through him at the thought of the Circle, instinct making him want to run. He tried to ignore the feeling. After all, what was the likelihood he would get another chance to talk to a Circle mage? Raviathan edged toward the mage encampment. 

Templars. Fires take him, they were crawling around the encampment like the prison guards they were. Raviathan’s heart thudded so hard he thought he could hear it. 

“May I help you, young man?” Standing nonchalantly by the tower base was an older woman in beige and brown robes with a staff. She had to be a mage. Her white hair would have been shoulder length but was tied back in a severe, short ponytail. She had widely spaced blue eyes in an apple shaped face marked with character. Her well defined if thin mouth carried the lines of age. 

“I was curious is all.” 

“No need to be so afraid,” she said. “I am Wynne.”

“Rav. Raviathan, but everyone calls me Rav.” Raviathan crossed his arms to cover the trembling of his hands. He wondered if she could detect the shaking he heard in his own voice. “I suppose magic makes most people nervous.”

“Indeed,” she said, the lines around her eyes crinkling in what Raviathan took to be regret. “Tales of demons and abominations abound, so I cannot say your fear is unfounded, but mages spend their entire life learning control. Though your fear of us is clear, you came here out of curiosity. If you have questions, I will answer them if I can.”

“Ah, okay.” Raviathan hadn’t thought much about what Circle mages must be like. For all his magic wielding years, his only concern was the templars. This Wynne seemed so normal. His own shadowed thoughts of Circle mages were of chains and figures hunched from beatings. “What’s the Circle like?” 

“It is a place of contemplation and learning. We are free to practice our gifts and learn to control them.” 

Free? The woman made it sound like some academy instead of the prison it was. Free to practice their gifts. There was no freedom when children were stolen from their parents’ arms. “And the templars?” 

“They serve their purpose.” 

A diplomatic answer, to be sure, but there was no rancor Raviathan could detect. Humans confused him more often than not, so he might just not be reading her correctly. 

“Interesting,” she said, her gaze steady with more interest than made him comfortable. “When an outsider approaches me, I’m usually asked about demons or what it’s like to cast magic.” 

“Oh. Yes. I suppose. My kin and friends have been taken, so I wondered about their treatment.” 

“Ah, yes. Now I understand. You are from an alienage then?”

“How did you know?”

“The Dalish are the only other elves who live in numbers large enough to produce several mages, but the Dalish are able to stay hidden from the templars. Newly brought elves are suspicious at first, but in the Circle humans and elves are equals, which they come to understand in time.” She waved a hand at the camp. Humans talked at leisure, gambled at small games of dice, or practiced with their chosen weapons. The few elves scurried about, the main movement in the camp, heads low as if in perpetual fear of a beating. “The few times I’ve been able to leave the Circle, I’m surprised anew at how differently elves are treated by the world at large.”

“You’ve been able to leave the Circle?” That bit of news struck him like a slap. Mages allowed out of the prison? Then why haven’t any of his friends or kin returned for a visit?

“Not often, but there are times mages are needed, as they are now. During times of battle, to advise the king, or confirm a noble child’s ancestry. Occasionally we are allowed to travel for study at other Circles.”

“They must trust you quite a bit then.”

Her smile gentled her face. “I suppose they do.” 

“You’ve never wanted to leave permanently?” 

“Of course. Every mage has at some time or another. It is a grand thing to see the world, but I know well my responsibilities.” Raviathan shifted, perplexed by this woman. A mischievous gleam entered her eyes. “That and I would be hunted down.” 

Raviathan couldn’t help a grin in return. “Do you know how templars do that? Hunt mages?”

“I’m not sure about apostates or malificarum, but each Circle mage has a vial of blood taken when they first come to the Circle, a phylactery. The templars can track missing mages with that.” 

As Solyn had warned, templars had power over mages, although the extent of that power was a mystery to them both. Templars were supposedly immune to magic and could disrupt a mage’s casting, and while there were rumors of more, neither was sure what was fact from fiction. That Solyn hadn’t been able to defend herself, had been beaten and brutalized while alive, spoke of stronger, darker abilities. 

All living creatures were connected to the Fade, so, given time and discipline, non mages could learn some limited but powerful abilities. Raviathan hypothesized that a templar learned to manipulate their limited connection to the Fade energy just as some rogues did to hide in shadows, as his mother could. What Wynne said confirmed that templars did have some developed skill with magic if they were able to use a mage’s blood to track them.

A mage’s power came from their own life energy, each casting of magic diminishing that energy until a mage could recoup. Mages could kill themselves if they tried to cast beyond their limits, just as a warrior could if he lost too much blood from wounds. Just as lost blood could be regenerated by the body, so a mage’s mana would be fueled by Fade energy through the soul by the mage’s unique connection to the Fade. Blood carried power as strong as mana, but unlike a mage’s mana, a person’s blood could be preserved, which created a link to the life from which the blood was taken. Blood was power, in some ways more versatile than mana, but magic worked through blood tarnished a mage’s soul like wine poured on a white dress. 

Was working with blood what tarnished a templar? If blood magic corrupted a mage’s soul, surely working with blood did the same to templars. Did they use blood magic to gain their abilities? If so, no wonder they were capable of such monstrosity. 

The impetus for Raviathan’s family’s escape from slavery had been because of Solyn. The family who owned them had decided Solyn would learn blood magic. Adaia, seeing her sister’s blind panic, had formulated the escape that killed off Raviathan’s grandparents, uncle, and two cousins. Raviathan was named for the uncle who had sacrificed his life to kill the blood mage that had stalked their family from the Tevinter Imperium, through Nevarra and finally the Free Marches. 

“If I may,” she said, bringing him out of his thoughts, “you don’t strike me as a simple messenger, but there are no elven soldiers, and I haven’t seen you before.” 

“No,” he replied hesitantly. “I came with Commander Duncan this morning.” 

“Ah,” she said her face clearing. “Then you are his newest recruit are you not?” He nodded, and she renewed her measure of him. Humans had been staring at him since he had left the alienage, and he was getting rather sick of all the scrutiny. Even as a dock worker he had the respite of home afterwards. She should be use to elves considering how many of his kin had been taken to the Circle. “He’s not a man easily impressed. You should be proud.” 

“Um, thank you.” How many people knew about him? The Grey Wardens he expected, maybe a few guards. Why would this mage know? Followed by that was what did they know? Killing a lord wasn’t easily forgiven. Though Duncan had reassured him, Raviathan would take no chances until this ritual was done. Even then, accidents could happen around vengeful nobles, particularly in the chaos of battle. “Do you know Duncan well then?” That seemed a neutral enough question. 

“Not especially, but we have had a few discussions when he had been by the Circle. He has some… rather open ideas about magic and the Grey Wardens.” 

“You don’t agree with him?” The conformation on Duncan’s attitude towards magic cleared away the last niggling shadow of doubt that Raviathan had. Duncan wouldn’t fear him, would value his abilities. As much as Raviathan’s father loved him, and Raviathan had no doubt that his father loved him, his magic had created a wall between them. A shadow of fear, tiny but ever present, lay behind Cyrion’s eyes when he looked at his son. A wave of protective responsibility for Duncan washed into Raviathan much as it had with Nesiara or his cousins when he had delivered them. Duncan respected him as an elf and as a mage. The feeling was warm and good, giving him purpose and confidence. 

“I think he is very devoted to the Wardens’ mission,” she said, watching him with intelligent, pale blue eyes. Though he had never had a teacher before, and no formal education, she struck him as an experienced teacher. She reminded him of Solyn in that there was a certain sternness, a woman who would not hide uncomfortable truths, but was not unkind either. He wondered what her perspective would be on a number of issues: the king, the coming battle, the darkspawn, and most of all magic. But that last would have to wait until he was an official Grey Warden. “I know he was looking for a recruit at the Circle. Neria had the most potential of any apprentice in at least a decade, and I believe she was ready to graduate soon. Do you know where she is? I’d like to speak with her.” 

Neria? No, that had to be a coincidence. Though his childhood memories had faded at the edges, he remembered orange red hair barely tamed by braids, a quick smile, and a girl overflowing with want for adventure. Surely the world could not be so cruel to take that brilliance away. Not Eolas’ only daughter. If it was her, Raviathan didn’t want to know. Only pain lay down that road. Raviathan bit his lips, wondering how well this human knew of the apprentice. She seemed fond of her. “I don’t know the details or her name even. Duncan said there was a recruit he was interested in, but she was made tranquil.” 

“Tranquil!” Wynne exclaimed. “What happened?” 

He hated bringing bad news, and it seemed Wynne had known the recruit after all. “I’m not sure it is this Neria, but the mage he wanted to recruit was involved in some plot with a blood mage. They made her tranquil in response.” Wynne slumped and looked away in grief. “I’m sorry,” Raviathan said and meant it. “Did you know her well?” From Wynne’s reaction, it sounded like someone had died, and from what he knew of the tranquil, that was true. The worst part about it was that the apprentice was still alive in a fashion. 

Wynne shook her head as a comment to the senselessness of it. “Yes,” she said in the distant voice of one lost in memory. “I was one of her early teachers. Even when Irving took over her lessons, she still came to me for mentoring. Such a loyal, talented girl.” Wynne’s focus sharpened on him, “Blood magic you said?” 

“I don’t know more than I have already said, and I would not like to be responsible for misinformation or rumors. Speak to Duncan.” 

With a sigh Wynne nodded reluctantly. “When he and I have a chance. What about you, young man? How did Duncan recruit you?” 

“It’s… a long story. Essentially he was a friend of my mother’s and knew I had been trained.” 

“Hmm,” she mused, watching him. “Do you know much about the darkspawn?”

Raviathan shrugged. “Duncan has been teaching me about the darkspawn on the journey here. “

“He would be the expert,” she replied with a little more warmth. How well did the two know each other? “But let me ask you this. How much do you know about the connection between the darkspawn and the Fade?”

“Duncan and I have discussed the theories.” 

That earned another measuring look from the mage. Raviathan was reminded of Valendrian when the elder elf suspected Raviathan of mischief, a look he was very familiar with. “Such as?” 

“Well, the Chantry’s version, of course, as well as theories not related to the Maker.” 

“You are not fond of what the Chant says then.” 

“The Chant says many things,” he scoffed. It’s what they leave out that had him start to question the Chantry years ago. The Chantry hated mages. Why would any self respecting mage, and she looked like one, take the Chant seriously? In any case, he hadn’t read that part of the Chant. He had heard enough of the priestesses’ crowing ring out in the Market. Anything to make mages look like deviants and criminals was left in and sung loudly. Other than the dissonant verses, he hadn’t read much finding the whole thing corrupted by politics. 

“Your dismissal of the Chant’s long history is premature. It may be allegory meant to teach us that our own evil is what causes human suffering. Or it may be true. There are some rather compelling arguments for it, such as the horde that amasses in the Wilds as we speak, and the Old God behind their new drive.” 

Nice idea, he thought, but the priestesses he had met and the followers all took it literally. As an allegory, it had potential, but it explained nothing, not the turning away of the Maker, the Black City, or the darkspawn. These were facts. The Maker did not watch over them. They had been abandoned. The Black City could be seen no matter where someone was in the Fade, and the Chant only pretended to know what happened during that ritual. There were no witnesses that day in the Fade other than the mages, and they left no record of what had happened. All that was witnessed was the darkening of the mages, their bodies twisting into the first darkspawn. The shriek that had bore down on him last night, the face of evil as he had never known could exist, that was not allegory. 

How could one trust a spiritual truth that kept changing? He didn't mind additions as new truths were discovered or events happened, but to take out existing 'truth' for political convenience, such as the elves' right to a homeland, was just as twisted as they claimed the Tevinter magisters had been. He had no patience for accepting a lie because there was no better explanation. Truth was truth, and stories meant to entrench their own power didn’t take the place of truth. She talked of suffering. This storytelling was causing suffering.

Tell men to act better, fine. It wouldn’t work, but tell them anyway. Don’t mix that by tying that to perpetuate fear of magic. Men who had power acted on their whims. That was true with Vaughan, and it was just as true with King Cailan. One sought his pleasure at the cost of others. Cailan sought glory though he had not the wisdom or temperance to lead men safely or effectively. Neither had magic, and they both put other people’s lives in danger. They caused suffering. Allegory or not, the Chant ignored the evils of lords in favor of a scapegoat while the lords claimed power was only dangerous in the hands of mages.

What this ‘allegory’ taught was the reason he was in fear for his life every day since he was five. It was what had killed his aunt though she had eased others’ suffering. It was the reason this mage standing in front of him had been put in a prison and told it was for her own and everyone else’s good. And she believed it. That was the betrayal, to turn one against themselves. He had been good at hiding his whole life because it was necessary, but he couldn’t entirely keep the contempt from his voice when he said, “I’ll just kill every darkspawn I see.” 

Wynne’s eyes narrowed, and Raviathan knew that she was much better at reading elves than he was at understanding humans. Her annoyance was clear though. She opened her mouth to speak when a templar strode over. “You there. Move along, and stop pestering the mages.”

Fear clenched Raviathan’s stomach like a stone dropped on his gut. He nodded and hurried away. As he left, he caught Wynne’s voice. “Now that was unnecessary. He was curious was all.” 

“Enough rest, Wynne. You’ve got your duties.” 

Though Raviathan could make out her voice, the rest of her words were obscured by the noise of the camp. Just as well. That was the closest Raviathan had ever been to a templar. His breakfast gurgled uncomfortably in his stomach as he hurried up a ramp to put as much distance from himself and the templars as possible. 

Most helmets showed something of a man’s face, his eyes or mouth, a scrap of beard or scars, something that made them a person. Not templars. A thin slit shadowed their eyes, the rest obscured by metal. Even demons had faces. Only shades, the formless dead souls of the Fade that preyed upon weakened shattered souls, were as faceless. 

As a child, Raviathan had nightmares of being chased by an army of faceless men. He would run through the streets, scampering down alleys, trying to hide in shadows or buildings, but there was nowhere to hide. They were so much faster than he. Faceless, cold, and hard, templars haunted him as no demon could. 

Away from the Mages’ encampment, Raviathan took a moment to collect himself . This past fortnight, he had been subject to a ridiculous amount of fear. Starting with his wedding, he’d had only a day or two at a time where he wasn’t being preyed upon in one manner or another. While that soldier had given him relief, the stress of the journey had tired him out. Better to get his mind off the templars. Otherwise he’d dwell on them and only rile himself up. 

The rest of the camp proved a pleasant enough diversion as he had hoped. Many chests provided ample exercise for his rusty lock picking skills. There were a few coins here, a dagger there. He found some rather wonderful arrows that held a small dose of freezing liquid in a vial that was designed to shatter on impact. Though he knew how to make that potion, it wasn’t possible to find the ingredients in the alienage, and they were massively expensive compared to the meager pocket money he got from working in Alarith’s shop. 

Raviathan felt little guilt over taking the items within. They were small things to begin with, and besides, the soldiers were all well outfitted. If he was to be in the coming battle, he was woefully under-equipped. He didn’t even have a proper backpack, just the pillow sack. Compared to the soldiers, he looked ridiculous. If being an elf weren’t enough of a obstacle here, his shabby appearance would earn him nothing but contempt. 

While with Duncan, Raviathan had a buffer against the world of humans, but now that he was on his own, this world outside his alienage struck him anew with its strangeness. Human seemed to have no concept of their size. They were careless, as large and imprecise in their movements as young children. Not only were they physically imposing, they took up a great deal more space than they should. These humans stood far apart to have a simple conversation, their voices carrying far as if they were the only people around. While they would be a spy’s delight, as it was, Raviathan thought they were rude beyond all reason, as if each and every one were the lord of this fortress. 

Even humans who were by all measure friends kept distance. Raviathan knew well enough by now that humans didn’t share the physical intimacy elves did, but the spaces they kept between each other were extreme. Were humans lonely? The question never occurred to him before, but as he watched, he wondered about them. Perhaps they didn’t know how to connect as elves did. Perhaps they didn’t have the same sense of empathy. That he had to barter with a guard to feed a starving prisoner spoke of the emotional walls they hid behind. 

Perhaps he was over thinking things. Shianni would have teased him, reminded him that people like Elva had little connection to her community. That marked Elva though. She was strange in the alienage. Certainly many an elf had become bitter over the years, too much death, too much scraping and begging, but their ties to the community were deep as the roots of the vhenadahl. These humans were all like Elva. Elves were like the trees of a forest, their existence defined by their relationship to each other to form something greater than the individual trees. These humans didn’t exist beyond their own skin. Everything they were was contained and untouchable. 

Despite the assurances of the king, there was an air of panic in the camp. Not that he could read humans well, but he could see the tight, nervous glances of the soldiers at any movement. The Redcliffe soldiers hadn’t had this undercurrent of panic. A fight broke out over a game of lost dice. Voices rose too quickly too fast, and it was only the swift intervention of a knight that stopped the fight from spreading to the rest. They were all looking for an excuse to get their minds off the battle. A wounded soldier, his eyes a fevered yellow and wide with panic, was screaming about darkspawn to everyone who passed. The nurse did her best to calm him, but there was no help for it. The soldier was spooked beyond reason. 

Flipping the cleaned little brass key he got from the prisoner in the air and catching it, Raviathan wished he knew more about darkspawn. He hadn’t thought to ask if they took prisoners, but he supposed they would. Humans did. But then what purpose did darkspawn have with prisoners? They didn’t negotiate for hostages or press them into service. Food? But then they’d constantly be raiding the surface. Unless they kept humans and dwarves like cattle in some cave. Then what did the prisoners eat? Why hadn’t he thought to ask? 

“But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion should they set themselves against me.” A Chantry priestess was spouting her lies to a small group of soldiers. Raviathan knew his contempt was showing when the priestess frowned at him though she did not break her sermon. He returned her frown with a scowl, but a niggling little thought poked at him. Had he not just been wondering at the rudeness of humans? Raviathan brushed away the concern. Rude he may be, but he was allowed his own thoughts, and this woman was part of the reason he had to hide since he was a child. The hate the Chantry preached had caused more pain than all the demons of the Fade. 

With an imperious wave of her hand, the priestess finalized her prayer with a blessing to the knights around her. She raised her eyebrows at Raviathan, her eyes narrowed in challenge. “And would you receive the blessing of the Maker?” 

Raviathan snorted. She already knew the answer. “The Maker will bless me or not. You flatter yourself to think you are part of his design.”

A well fed knight turned on him then, scandalized on behalf of the priestess. The knight had the smallest head Raviathan had ever seen on such a large man. Not much room for a brain. He looked down his nose at Raviathan, his buggy little eyes showing the white at the top. “Now that was uncalled for.” 

“Spoken like someone who has never had their homeland stolen from them,” Raviathan said, glaring at the knight. 

The knight snorted, dismissing him as he turned back to the priestess. “Ignore him. You do the Maker’s work, Sister.” 

“Your brain has been pinched too much by that skull of yours,” Raviathan muttered under his breath. 

“What was that?” The knight turned, a faint pink coloring his sallow cheeks. Raviathan was already walking away and didn’t bother replying. The knight raised his voice to Raviathan’s retreating back, “The King’s mercy has allowed some to forget their place.” 

Idiot. And what did the king’s mercy have to do with anything? That knight was a loon. Cailan had done nothing for elves during his time as king. 

Had he really met a king? Talked with him? So much of his world had been flipped upside down, Raviathan wondered if he would ever feel normal again. Three months ago, high adventure consisted of venturing outside Denerim to talk with one of Alarith’s suppliers. Raviathan’s gaze roamed over the old fortress, along the broken walls and wilderness that was reclaiming lost ground, and he had another moment of feeling very small in a place he was never meant for. Raviathan ambled down a ramp to the lower section of the fortress wondering why Duncan had so much faith in him. 

“That pretty head of yours could be decorating some darkspawn spear by tomorrow.” 

Raviathan’s lips parted when he heard that. Andraste’s flaming tits, what kind of idiot used a line like that to get into a woman’s favor? She was an attractive woman, lightly tanned with dark chocolate hair and delicate features, and giving the dark man a look to freeze fire. Whoever the man was, he was blithely ignoring her glare as he fed her one line after another. Finally the woman had enough and left without a word. 

“Smooth,” Raviathan said. 

The dark man turned then blinked in surprise, adjusting his gaze down to look Raviathan in the eye. Whoever the inept seducer was, he gave Raviathan a friendly grin. “I thought so myself. But I suppose you could do better, eh?” 

“A lice covered sot could do better.” At least this man wasn’t put off by being addressed so by an elf. Raviathan’s estimation of him rose. “Telling a woman that her corpse might be desecrated tomorrow probably isn’t the best idea for a romantic encounter.” 

The man opened his mouth to retort then thought about it. “Huh. Well you got me there,” he replied with a chagrined scratch of his head. “Ah well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” 

“You there, elf,” a balding giant of a man called. Even with his age and the belly that had formed, he was either a former soldier or blacksmith judging by the wide set of his shoulders and arms that bulged with muscle. He scowled at Raviathan, tapping his leg with a switch. “Where’s my armor, and why are you dressed so preposterously?” 

Raviathan backed away a step in surprise. “I’m no servant.” 

“Listen here, knife ears, I’ll have none of your lies,” the man said as he swatted the switch against his boot in warning. 

“But…” Raviathan started. The large man raised the switch as he tried to grab Raviathan’s arm. With a movement almost too quick to follow, the human found a dagger at his throat with the elf leaning in. “Put the switch down. Now.” 

Both humans stood still in shock. The large man slowly lowered the switch and leaned back. “Easy now. Doesn’t need to come to that.”

Raviathan glared at him. “I am no servant. Do you understand that?” 

“Sure, sure,” the man replied, taking a step back, then another, his gaze locked on the dagger. When he was far enough away, he rubbed his throat where a faint pink line formed. Raviathan returned the blade, never taking his eyes off the man. “Who are you then? The armies don’t allow elves.” 

Raviathan lifted his chin. “I am here with Duncan, Commander of the Grey.” 

The dark man’s face cleared as he looked the elf over with renewed interest. “You’re his new recruit. He sent word about you.” 

The large man paled at the news. “I beg your pardon, ser. I didn’t mean… Maker’s breath. Ser, I’m just a simple quartermaster. No one special. Please, ser, I beg your pardon.” 

The begging put Raviathan off. Humans never apologized. Embarrassed by the sudden change in the quartermaster’s manner, Raviathan spat, “Don’t switch elves anymore.” 

“Oh. Of course, ser,” the quartermaster said backing up into his storage area. “I’ll… I’ll certainly remember that.” 

The dark man was looking at him up and down, now taking in the weapons the elf carried. Raviathan forced himself not to fidget. Maker, but humans had a knack of always throwing him off his stride. Was he ever going to adjust to this world outside his alienage? He murmured, “Seems a number of people have heard about me.” 

“I’m Daveth,” he said, holding out his hand in greeting. 

Unnerved, Raviathan gripped Daveth’s wrist in reflex. “Rav.”

“I’ve heard only a little about you from Alistair. The other Wardens don’t talk to us recruits much.” He rubbed his hands and breathed warm air on them to heat up. “You’re not what I expected.” 

“Oh?” asked Raviathan. 

“Well, one of ‘em said you’re a top fighter, but I didn’t expect an elf. But here you are.” 

Damn these shems. You scratch the surface, and they’re all the same. “You’ve got a problem with that?” Raviathan asked with more anger than he intended. That Duncan hadn’t wrote that his new recruit was an elf touched him. At least to Duncan he wasn’t just some elf. He was an equal, a Grey Warden as valid as any of these shems.

“Hey now,” Daveth said, raising his hands in placation. “I’m just saying. I’ve run with an elf or two back in Denerim. Quick with a blade if you ask me. If Duncan respects you, then I’ve no issue.” 

With a sigh Raviathan thought of what Duncan had asked of him. Be patient. “Sorry. I’ve had some trouble getting used to humans. You’re from Denerim?”

“Aye, but I was born in a little nothing of a village a few days east of here. Ran off when I could. Dad of mine was a right angry git. Was only too glad to be rid of him. Farming never appealed to me anyhow.” 

“You’ve been here long?” If he was from Denerim, why hadn’t Daveth made the journey with them? 

“A week or so. Duncan sent me along with the last contingent of the king’s army after he, ah, recruited me. Said he had business left in the city and needed to travel a bit more afterwards.” 

Raviathan cocked his head, not sure if he was reading the human correctly. “Did you want to be a Grey Warden?” 

A nervous smile split Daveth’s face. “Ah, well, not that I minded, but he had to conscript me.” Raviathan raised his eyebrows in question, and Daveth’s lips twitched. After a quick glance around, his voice lowered though no one was about. “Mayhap you might understand such things, but don’t go blabbing about it. Was going to be hanged for thieving one too many times. I tell ya, Duncan is a fast bastard. Made me work for that bit of coin I took off him. Invoked the Right of Conscription though the guard was none too pleased about it.” 

Raviathan’s mouth eased in a slight smile. “Alright, yes. I understand such things.” 

“Ah, knew you might. Elves who can fight don’t work for the guards as I know it. Did Duncan tell you much of this Joining ritual then?” 

“Very little.” 

“I hear the Wardens mean to send us out in the Wilds. Witches, wildlings, monsters, and now darkspawn crawling about. I don’t know if they were having a go at me or not.” 

“Wildlings?”

“Chasind. Eat the flesh of the men they kill and wear their skins,” Daveth said with a shiver. “Didn’t think I’d have to be around them again.” 

“You… know this?” Maker’s blood. The depravity humans could sink to astounded him. He thought he had seen the worst with Vaughan, but cannibalism and wearing the skin of the dead went beyond ghoulish. 

“It’s what my mom said. Took me and my brothers out one day when we was young to see what they did to a body. My youngest sib had nightmares for ages. Believe you me we didn’t wonder off the village after that.” 

“How did your village manage to stay safe?”

“Wildlings don’t leave the great trees in which they make their home often, not unless it’s something urgent. Didn’t bother us too much either as long as we left them a part of our harvest every year.” Daveth shrugged. “If they kill the farmers, they don’t get their portion. We needed their protection from the dryads, so as long as a kid didn’t do something stupid like trounce through their territory, we had an understanding. Besides, farmers weren’t no threat to them. They mainly fought each other. But then, as the Maker would have it, I’m not a farmer anymore. We’re free game.” 

Creepy. Raviathan’s skin itched at the thought of wearing human skin. He would have been convinced that humans truly were monsters if he hadn’t seen the shrieks the night before. 

“Then there’s the Witch of the Wilds,” Daveth said, squirming. “Maker help me, I’d never thought I’d be back here. As if the wildlings weren’t enough.” 

“Witch of the Wilds?” 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard.” Daveth seemed offended at Raviathan’s blank expression. “Maker! What rock did Duncan find you under?” 

“Hey!” 

“I tell you, I’d take the wildlings any day over the Witch. At least with the wildlings you know you’re going to die at some point. Stories of that Witch are nasty enough to make your ear tips fall off.” 

“Worse than cannibals?” Daveth hadn’t struck him as particularly devout, yet here was another example of how far the Chantry’s fear mongering reached. This Daveth was likely full of tall tales if his fear of apostates was any measure. 

“Now see here. I ain’t talking about some run about apostate. I met one back in Denerim. Nice enough fellow. The red light ladies had their fun with him before the templars could drag him back to that tower. The Witch of the Wilds is a different creature entirely.” 

“You mean she’s an abomination?”

“Don’t know what she is, but she’s older than dirt. Just you watch yourself. She takes men, keeps them alive to feed on their souls like some giant spider. Turn them into husks. Half dead but not dead and left to wander the wilds as their bodies rotted away. One of them sort of staggered into our village once. Foaming at the mouth, dead eyed, and grey as if covered in ash. Attacked anything that moved. No matter how many times he was hit, he still kept coming after us. Was still twitching and moaning when we burned him.”

“Rubbish.” Sounded like a wildling with rabies or perhaps blight plague. 

Daveth shook his head, eyes wide and earnest. “Truth or the Maker strike me down. We could hear the wildling women wail at night when one of their daughters was taken by the Witch. Chill your blood the way they howled. Believe me or not, but don’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.” 

“Fair warning given,” Raviathan replied with a half grin. “Seems the Wardens don’t mean to coddle us. Have you fought darkspawn yet?” 

“Not yet. The Wardens have been warning me and Jory off until we’re officially a part of the Order. Frankly, I’m surprised they’ve waited this long, but the few that would talk to us said it’s important that the recruits go through the ritual together. Jory has been getting right impatient. He’s been waiting for months.” 

“They haven’t let him fight at all?” 

“Not a bit of it. Turning him into a bit of a rolly round with Andraste’s flame stuck up his arse if you ask me. I, on the other hand, have been enjoying the few diversions a place like this can offer.” 

“Careful. There are still guards about.”

Daveth glanced over at the woman. “Indeed there are.”

Following his line of sight, Raviathan grinned. “I suppose for an enterprising man, there are ways to while away the time.”

“So. You said you could do better.” 

“I don’t need the threat of darkspawn either.” 

“Perhaps after the battle then,” Daveth said with a grin. “We’ll see how well you do. First one to get a kiss from that lass gets their drinks free.” 

Raviathan wasn’t sure if that was just this human or if they were all like that, but to bet on a woman was repugnant. They weren’t darts or cards to gamble upon. Granted, he hadn’t been particularly nice to the girls and women he had sex with, but he didn’t bet on them either. Maybe that’s why they used the word ‘human’ in ‘dehumanizing’. But then he didn’t understand why being call a dog was an insult. Dogs were such nice animals: loyal, protective, and playful. It could be that he was missing something again, so he decided to let it go without insult. “We’re to be comrades. I can’t take your money like that.” 

“Oh-ho,” Daveth said with a hard grin. “That’s big talk from an elf.” 

Raviathan turned his head sharply to the human. The human’s hard eyes were more mischievous than mean, and Raviathan decided it was good natured teasing for having taken such offense before and goading the human a bit. He gave Daveth a sly smile then walked over to the woman who was warming her hands at one of the camp fires. She didn’t even bother to look at him. “Excuse me,” he said though she remained stone faced. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a dancing bear around here?” 

She frowned at him then. “A… what?” 

“A dancing bear,” he said going for an innocent but playful look. “I heard the archdemon got scared and gave up, so we’re to have a carnival tonight instead. I’m the juggler, but I can’t find the bear.” 

She looked at him a minute then huffed. “Funny. Almost as funny as that outfit.” 

Instead of taking offense, he gave her a bright smile. “I’ve got no complaints. Without it, I’d freeze my little elven nips off.” She scowled at the unexpected response. 

Watching the elf, Daveth leaned against the stone wall and shook his head. Drunken sot. That pretty boy elf was all talk. What was it with elves anyway? In his experience, elves were quick to take offense and over silly things or even when what he said that was a truth they wouldn’t admit to. He had met Tamriel briefly, and the man was definitely bitter. Here was yet another example of an elf looking for any excuse to be angry. No matter how many prostitutes Daveth had been with, he still found elven eyes eerie, almost hypnotic. At least with a prostitute, he could turn them around.

He was going to enjoy teasing this little braggart after the battle. Before the battle if he had time. Maybe if they were sent to the Wilds, he’d have a chance at ribbing. The new recruit kept chatting merrily as that gorgeous brunette continued to scowl at him. Daveth let his mind wander as the elf continued to strike out. Just what was this Joining anyway? Going into the Wilds was bad enough, but he had the sinking suspicion that they were going to have to drink something the mages were brewing. All the mages he had seen had been skinny and pale wimps. Nothing really to fear in them. The Witch of the Wilds was a whole different game of dice, and stories of her were enough to make any man’s stones crawl back inside. 

Daveth smirked as the pretty little elf started to walk away. He scowled when the brunette, who hadn’t taken her eyes off the elf, jogged after him calling, “Wait.” They were far enough away now that he could only hear their voices but not the words. The elf said something to her, looked at her as if annoyed, and continued to leave. Again she went after him. His jaw dropped open as the elf kept dismissing her, and the woman continued to chase after him. The elf looked distracted, annoyed, bothered, indifferent, and mildly interested. They stopped finally, and after a ten minute discussion, he shook his head and waved a dismissive hand at her. This time when he started away, she took his hand. She was standing quite close to him now, her fingers at play as she held his hand. Another brief discussion ensued. She looked around quickly to see who might be watching them, then led him off to a tent. 

No way. Sneaking quietly, Daveth neared the tent the two had entered. Being careful not to be obvious, he listened to the sounds of armor being removed, some murmured words, and then a female gasp of pleasure. No bloody way. That elf had talked to her for twenty minutes, thirty tops. He continued to listen to a few low murmurings which gave way to more feminine sounds of joy. Daveth slunk away feeling frustrated and amazed. It was annoying as all get out, but give credit where it was due. Maybe the elf would be willing to teach him how to do that. In the meantime, Daveth went back to his tent to relieve the ache in his pants. 

 

~o~O~o~

 

Raviathan decided he rather liked human women. Their scents were heavier, skin rougher, strange compared to elves, but their willingness more than made up for it. Her breasts weren’t as large as the last woman, but they were well formed and larger than any elf. He ran a thumb over the high nub again and again as her breasts bounced with each thrust. And these women were so open to sex. Granted, they didn’t have to worry about being kicked out of an alienage, but it was refreshing not to deal with any hang ups. If they wanted sex, they simply did so. Being around so many humans did have possibilities. 

He withdrew to move one of her legs so her shoulders were flat with her torso twisted and rump exposed. He straddled the lower leg then and took some pleasure at gazing at the swollen lips before thrusting into her. He pumped fast, and she started stroking her own body, squeezing her bouncing breasts and running her hands over her stomach. The first thing she had done was suck him ready. She hadn’t batted an eyelash when she saw him, had taken him in her mouth eagerly, so he assumed elven and human men were more or less similar. 

Humans had so much hair. He smiled at the idea of bearded women. Strange how their hair drew the eye yet gave them the allure of mystery at the same time. That thick, curly hair couldn’t hide them once their legs were open. His fingers played with her sex, exploring the folds and sensitivities there. He didn’t rub the little nub knowing it was probably too sensitive right now. Instead he enjoyed the heat and textures. She raised her leg to give him better access, and he slowed so he could watch as he disappeared inside and see the deep pink peaks and valleys of her sex.

He ran his fingers up the walls of her sex, parting the lips and saw a bump that had developed a couple inches from the front. He pressed a thumb over it and was rewarded with a groan as she reflexively squeezed her breasts, pressing her nipples firmly. He rubbed it a little, a small gentle rotation, and she started to buck. He pushed her leg up, leaned forward, and thrust hard and fast. She threw her head back as he slapped into her again and again. His balls started to tighten. No. Just a little longer. He grimaced as he pushed faster. Maker she was wet. And the way she moved. Her mouth was bared open as if in pain as she panted. Just a little… 

A sense of rushing of his whole body, from scalp to toes in skin prickling electricity, as he pushed all that force into her. There was that wonderful moment when there was no thought. Once over, he felt heavy. He slumped over her for a minute. Human women were a definite advantage. They both just breathed for a time. When he pulled out she writhed with a little moan. At least the tent was warm now. He was going to have to wash up again. After another minute of rest he started to dress. 

“You’re not staying?” she asked. She sounded a little wounded but was too tired to care overmuch. 

“Sorry. I really am waiting for someone and being in a tent might make it hard to find me.” That was true, but tired as he was, he wasn’t about to sleep with her. The cool air outside the tent would help wake him up. 

She wrapped a blanket up around herself and watched him dress with lazy eyes. “Will I see you later?” 

There were worse things. “Maybe we can celebrate after the battle?” 

“I’d like that,” she said, twisting under the blanket to run a hand up his back. The movement had deliberately exposed one of her breasts, and he could tell she was pleased when his eyes fastened on it for a moment. He smiled at her, taking her hand to plant a kiss. 

Leaving the tent, Raviathan couldn’t help but envy the freedom humans had. When they wanted to have sex, they did so without guilt or shame. For them, sex was as natural an appetite to feed as hunger. 

What had been fun in the moment turned into a heavy hollowness that nested into the pit of his stomach. That hollowness grew up his spine, it’s roots creeping along his shoulders, down his arms and legs, clinging to the back of his throat. 

In his childhood, trouble had always stemmed from the insistent thoughts that hunted after him. Those thoughts sought him in quiet moments, invaded his mind when he took his meals, troubled his sleep with constant wanting. Even when he found a woman to satiate the crawling, persisting needs of his body, it was never enough. He had grown up with children who were always starved for food or affection, and though his stomach was full and his family gave him security, he understood the distant, roaming gazes those children had. Distraction helped in the moment, but he gnawing need would sink it’s teeth into him, gnash him until his brain was clouded, driving him to seek relief. Relief never lasted, leaving him calm but quietly melancholy. Raviathan bowed his head in memory. For the few brief months his life had been joined with another’s, he had been released. 

Did anyone see him leave the tent? Would they know what he did? His gaze darted around as he hurried away to clean up. Why had he dirtied himself for something as stupid as a bit of pride? If he was honest with himself, he knew the bet was just an excuse. Why couldn’t he stop? Shame crawled over his skin, as close a companion as his own shadow and just as inescapable. Why couldn’t he be as free as a human?


	28. Plans and Tactics – The Miles from Home

“Rav!” 

He turned at the unexpected child like voice. “Beth?” 

A mousy, plain woman rushed up to him, her arms full with scrolls and map cases. Nessa’s mother. Raviathan had forgotten her parents had signed up to work for the army. “Here. Let me help,” Raviathan said, lifting the map cases slung over her shoulder.

“I never expected to see you here, especially after the last contingent arrived a week ago. How long have you been here?” 

“Arrived just this morning,” Raviathan said, following her across the camp. 

“Rav, you have to hurry. You’ll get switched. This morning? But… there haven’t been any new men. Don’t tell me you came on your own. You’ll want to get out of that armor before you draw too much attention.” 

“Don’t worry about getting switched. Anyone who gives you trouble, tell them you were on Grey Warden business.” 

She cast him a nervous glance. “Don’t lie. Ever,” she whispered. “They’ll cut your rations on top of a beating.” 

Heat flooded Raviathan’s face. “Point out any shem that beats you, and I’ll strip their skin off.” 

“Rav! What’s gotten into you?” 

Glancing around and finding no one paying attention to them, Raviathan took Beth by the elbow and led her to a secluded bench. “Calm. Beth, I don’t want to worry you. Nessa is fine, but Denerim is not as you left it.” 

Her hand covered her mouth as she took his pain in. “Speak.” 

Raviathan held her hand in both his own. “Remember, Nessa is unharmed.” He took a breath, holding it before he relayed the events that lead to his conscription. She gasped, the blood draining from her already pale face to leave her looking ghostly. He leaned in, whispering, “No one here knows I’m the one who killed Vaughan. Word is that the elves who attacked were killed. I thought you had a right to know about your daughter, but please, Beth.” 

Tears pricked her eyes, but she nodded in understanding for his plea for secrecy. “My baby girl. To think what could have happened.” 

Her tears started to fall, her breath coming in jerks. Raviathan put an arm around her shoulders and pressed his lips to her temple. “She’s alright. She’s alright, Beth. Not a scratch. With Vaughan gone, there’s no one who would hurt her.” 

She leaned into him, her worries of switching temporarily forgotten. Her pain came quickly, but she recovered just as quickly. She wiped her face, her breathing becoming regular. “Oh, sweetheart. Thank you for protecting my baby.” 

He gave her a squeeze, kissing her temple. “Of course.” 

She pulled away, her hand going up to cup his cheek with an expression of pure sorrow. “I’m sorry for what it cost you.” 

Raviathan looked away, unable to hold her gaze. When he spoke, his voice sounded like gravel grinding. “I don’t want to think of her.” 

She patted his knee. “Of course.” Beth took a shaky breath, the act cleaning out much of her troubles, then took hold of his hands. “A Grey Warden, Rav. I’ve heard there’s a elf in the Grey Wardens. You’ll be the second. That’s quite an achievement. You do us proud.” 

The small smile he gave her held no humor. “I don’t know that Claye would agree. Not to disparage your husband. He’s a good man, but he never thought much of me.” 

“Oh, he’s just old fashioned. Hard parents and became a parent himself late. Gives him a different way a viewing things, but he always saw your value to the alienage. Never said a word against you. Life is going to be a lot harder without you there.” 

He squeezed her hands at the sentiment but had no words, not of comfort or denial. She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. “I keep thinking that I might have lost my baby. That I’d never get to tell her I love her again.” 

After last night, Raviathan understood that sentiment as he never had before. His father and cousins might get word months after his death. He thought of Shianni, sitting like a broken doll on her bed, untouchable. The faces of his cousins and the children Raviathan had cared for over the years flashed through his mind. Not only would they not have him to rely on, in death all possibility would be gone as well. It was one thing to lose a cousin to the Circle, another to have that cousin die. With him as a Warden, they had hope that one of their own could become someone important. Death made their own lives more finite. Finally, Raviathan thought of his father. There was so much that went unsaid between them. How would his father fair knowing he was the sole survivor? No wife, no children. 

Mortality was not something Raviathan had to face often, but there were enough moments that he recognized the value of his life. Now though, he thought of the world as his father must see it. How horrible to lose your only child. His father had loved children, had wanted grandchildren as much as Raviathan had wanted a child. Raviathan couldn’t imagine what it would be like to see his own child, a little life that he had cared and nurtured for years, walk away to fates unknown. He could almost see his father’s face when he got the news that his son had died, the lines growing deeper, the sorrow in his father’s blue eyes as he lived out his remaining years alone. Raviathan saw his father sitting at the table, his cup held in both hands, as the dark of night fell, a caring man left in solitude during the long, dark hours of his remaining life. 

“Beth?” Raviathan’s voice was still hoarse, the weight of emotion scratching this throat. “Let’s make a promise to each other. If something happens to one of us, we look after the other’s family. I’ll make sure Nessa has a good match. You care for my father. Make sure he eats. Make sure he isn’t alone.” 

Her hands squeezed his, and he closed his eyes against the tears that threatened. Even so, he could feel the slight waver of his chin. The last weeks of strain, the lack of sleep, the attack last night, the echoing pain of one lost who was to be by his side were all too much. Perhaps after the battle he would get the rest he needed so badly. 

“You promise to give my love to Nessa,” Beth said. “Tell her how much she meant to us. That we did this so she could have a better future. That we love her.” 

“I will.” 

“It’s a good promise then. You take care of Nessa. Give her our love. We’ll take care of Cyrion.” She stroked his cheek. “I’ll make sure he knows how much you loved him. I know you had your differences, but we all knew that underneath that you both cared for each other deeply.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Promise.” 

“Promise. Thank you, Beth.” 

They sat for a moment, heads leaning against each other in silent security as they collected their emotions. Though they had never been particularly close, Raviathan could feel himself reaching for the comfort of the familiar. Just being with another elf was soothing. Beth understood his troubles without words in a way a human never could. 

Beth gave a little laugh to break the weight of emotion. “There are elves here from so many different parts of Ferelden. Elves from Denerim I haven’t seen in ages since they moved to work in the castle or for a noble family. At night when work is done, it’s been great fun catching up with news, trading stories, and singing. I expect you’ll be with the Grey Wardens, but you should come visit when you have a chance. They’ll all be so excited. A Grey Warden. I can hardly believe it myself.” 

A bit of sad humor did touch Raviathan’s smile then. “Half the time I can’t believe it either.” 

“Come.” Light, nervous laughter rang out from Beth. “I still have duties, but I can introduce you to a few of the others.” 

The wide corridor of ruins she led him through stood high enough to block out the sun. Only the tips of the tallest pines touched the weak sunlight. “I feel so tiny here. Like a dormouse scampering through a castle.” 

Beth quickly hushed her twitter of a laugh. “I felt the same. Work keeps us so busy I don’t notice anymore. So strange here. With all these trees, I keep thinking about the Dalish.” 

“Are they around here?”

“We’ve heard rumors, but nothing more. I wasn’t even sure they were real, but the soldiers from Gwaren talk about them. Whatever Dalish used to be here have all moved north to get away from the darkspawn. Oh Maker, I never thought I’d actually see a darkspawn. Gives me nightmares.” Her voice quavered as she hurried to meet the other elves working at the end of the corridor. “We used to be afraid of guards, but now, they’re the only thing between us and the horde.” 

How helpless the elves were here, thought Raviathan. They were subject to the whims of a lord back in Denerim or prey for street thieves, but here the threat wasn’t something they could hide from. If the darkspawn broke through, the most the elves could do was run. There was no way for his people to defend themselves, and from what Raviathan remembered of the shrieks, running was fruitless. 

A great wooden table dominated the back of the wide hall. A few elves scurried about, cleaning the area of branches and debris, setting up rough covering in case of rain, bringing forth chests or refreshments. Beth whispered, “This is where the king, generals, and advisers meet.” 

One elf, a man with hair the ranging color of redwood bark, glanced at Raviathan before doing a double take and staring. The others took note and soon they were all watching Raviathan. He heard ‘Dalish’ murmured. 

“This is Rav,” Beth said after depositing the scrolls and maps on the table. “He’s from my alienage.” 

The others gathered around to form a circle and introduced themselves, a simple act of inclusion that made Raviathan ache in homesickness. How he had missed being with his own people with their shared understanding. The pain of being with them was like the ache of healing. 

“I thought for sure you were a Dalish,” the redheaded man said. “Are you a soldier?” 

“He’s Warden-Commander Duncan’s newest recruit,” Beth said, taking his arm and smiling. His position, that they were acquainted, and from the same alienage would add to her prestige among the group. Raviathan leaned closer to Beth so their shoulders touched, letting her have her moment. 

One woman clapped a hand over her open mouth at the news. “I’d heard the king say there was to be no more switching of elves.” She glanced around at the rest when she became the focus of the circle. “Quartermaster was complaining about an elf who pulled a knife on him, and the king laughed. Thought it was funny, then said it was his royal command that elves not be switched or abused. That was you, wasn’t it?” 

“I… yes.” Raviathan was stunned. “The king,” what should he say? Favors him? “The king supports the Wardens.” 

“Maker, he didn’t do that for Tamriel,” a dark haired elf with a long face said. 

Noticing the dark looks the others sent each other at the mention of Tamriel, Raviathan said, “I’ve heard there was another elf in the Grey Wardens.” 

In her high, quiet voice, Beth said, “We don’t know him. We’ve invited him to join us for an evening, but he avoids us.” 

“At first we thought he was like that just with us, like maybe he’s an outcast or something,” the redhead added. “But he’s the same with the soldiers, and from what we can tell, the other Wardens too.” 

An elf who stayed away from the group? Weird. If Tamriel was an outcast, they would be able to tell at once as his ears would have been docked to mark him. Raviathan wondered about this elf’s unnatural behavior. They would be the only two, and if there was something wrong with Tamriel, Raviathan was going to have a difficult time ignoring him. 

Conversation continued on, the others chatting or exchanging gossip, especially who to avoid or places to hide. 

“Stay away from the lunch soup. The cook is trying to hide the spoiled meat in it.” 

“Jenner is going to play the lute tonight. He said he learned a new song from one of the soldiers from Gwaren.” 

“Those Ash Warriors give me the creeps. The way they stare. One of them spit on me this morning.” 

“There’s an abandoned cathedral near the back of the fortress. Hop behind the wall and no one will see you if you need to get away.” 

“One of the scouting parties said they found Dalish arrows in a dead blight wolf east of here. To think the Dalish were so close.” 

More than the words, Raviathan listened to the continuous ebb of voices flowing to his ears like the soothing sound of river water. The elves grew more comfortable, smiles and jokes becoming easier. Eyes flashed lavender and green, in blues of sky and lapis, making the elves real to Raviathan in a way humans couldn’t be. Their emotions were clear and true, not clouded behind the smaller, dull eyes of humans. Only Duncan was excluded from Raviathan’s comparison. That human had proved himself, his eyes holding warmth in Raviathan’s memory. 

“Hey, you bloody, lazy knife ears!” 

The elves all turned at the booming voice. Conversation cut off with the abruptness of a snapping branch. All except Raviathan immediately scurried away to their duties, their heads down and backs slouched. 

“The King said no switching, but I can find other punishments for you!” The speaker was a burly man in rough, scarred armor. His wiry black beard obscured most of his face, but a large nose that bore the brunt of multiple breakings dominated the rest. 

Mouth thinned, Raviathan watched as his fellows were cowed, their shoulders bent, making themselves small in order to be less of a target, doing all they could not to draw the shem’s attention. Raviathan glared up at the shem, ready to pull his weapons given an opportunity. 

The shem opened his mouth, offense at a rebellious elf sharpening his gaze, but a humorless smile formed instead. One of his teeth was broken, leaving a sharp spike in his crooked mouth. “Warden.” 

If Raviathan was reading him correctly, the shem wasn’t going to overstep his bounds in an official capacity, certainly not to defy the king, but Raviathan would be a fool to press the man. The taskmaster was ready for an opportunity to embarrass him if possible. The shem was overconfident, like many of his ilk who thought size alone determined the victor. One confrontation for the day was enough. Anymore and Raviathan would be labeled a troublemaker. Deciding the threat of his apparent influence with the king would be enough, Raviathan stood coolly watching the human, measuring and cataloging any slights. The bluff was enough it seemed as the taskmaster yelled and blustered but went no further, not even threats. 

Influence with the king certainly had its perks. Raviathan had heard from other elves about sycophants who clung to nobles, how some nobles were more susceptible to sugared tongues. Now that Raviathan had some distance from his meeting with the king, he could reflect on what had happened with a clearer head. He had seen enough lust from shems to recognize that look, but he hadn’t seen that in Cailan despite the king calling him ‘pretty’. There was Cailan’s love of Wardens, and while that was what had probably set Raviathan apart from the other elves at the camp, the king’s fascination seemed more personal. Did Cailan want a pet like the queen had? An elf to be a companion, spy, and confidant? A pretty creature to make himself look good, like a well bred dog at his heels? What other use would the king have for him? 

Why did humans have to constantly call him pretty anyway, Raviathan groused to himself. 

Ignoring the shem’s continued grumblings, Raviathan looked over the table covered with paper and canvas. Stones resting on the corners kept the items in place, but Raviathan was surprised to see scribbles and colors on the canvases. He hadn’t known what to expect, lists and such, but not what looked like childishly squiggled lines. Raviathan recognized the letters printed randomly on the scribbled pictures but not the words they formed. Some of the canvases were quite old, stained and fraying at the edges. A finely embossed leather picture bore scars like a thrashed slave. One had splatters of blood and a knife shaped hole starring unblinkingly at the fog cloaked day. 

“You’re the new Warden, I presume,” a hoarse voice sounded. Though restrained, the underlining power of the speaker carried through the hall. 

Raviathan glanced up to see a large human in shining silverite armor in a style he hadn’t seen before. Long black hair framed a lined face that bore the brunt of a few scars that had turned livid with age. Despite the dark circles under the lord’s eyes, his pale blue gaze pierced with an aspect that was more wolf than human. Heavy brows and a dominating nose gave force to the man’s face. This man had an aura that commanded instant respect. Where Cailan was a boy wearing a king’s armor, and Arl Eamon seemed a man more at home in a throne room meriting out laws and judgments, this noble was most at peace on a battlefield. 

Realizing he was staring, Raviathan blinked and straightened. “Yes, ser.” He struggled not to fidget as the lord continued to watch him. Wardens probably didn’t fidget. Nope, no fidgeting, no matter how much he felt like a mouse with a wolf’s attention pinned on him. At least the taskmaster had left so Raviathan didn’t have to see the shem laughing at his discomfort. 

“You don’t look Dalish. You’re a city elf then?” 

“I am. From Denerim.” Just who was this man? No doubt the noble would take such an inquiry as an insult. Normally Raviathan wouldn’t have cared who this shem was, but considering the noble’s intimidating aura, he decided a little checking was in order. “I’m surprised so many people recognize me.” 

“How many elves have you seen wear weapons and armor openly?” The human’s dry tone left no doubt to what he thought of Raviathan’s comment. Brushing aside his irritation, Raviathan decided this was someone to study. This noble, judging by the authority he exuded, was a significant player in the battles against the darkspawn. 

When the lord turned his attention to the pictures on the table, Raviathan felt the weight of those pale blue eyes off him as if a heavy boulder he had been carrying was shrugged off. Instead of disturbing the lord again, which would likely further reduce the lord’s estimation, Raviathan watched in silent interest. The lord ran a reverent hand over the parchments and canvases, organizing them with meticulous care. He placed wooden blocks on them, some stained black while others had the seals of the Crown or other noble houses. Aside from Ferelden’s sigil, two red mabari on a checkered field of gold and white, Raviathan had no idea who was represented by what symbols. 

“Something interest you, Warden?” The human hadn’t paused from his work, his bent form focused on lining shifting the wooden blocks around. 

“What are these pictures?” 

The noble glanced at him, the line between his brows deepening. “You’ve never seen a map before?” 

Raviathan stepped up to the table in renewed fascination. Though Raviathan was tempted to make a smart remark, he held his tongue. No point in alienating the noble by asking, what use was a map to a city elf who never leaves the city? Knowing now what they were, Raviathan still couldn’t make sense of the colors or shapes. Brown blobs, more brown blobs, and odd inked squiggles didn’t resemble the land he had been walking though. Pointing, he asked, “What is this printing?” 

The noble knocked his hand away though Raviathan hadn’t intended on touching the map. “Orlesian.” The noble turned his full gaze on the map, bent over with one arm as support on the table as he traced paths with a light finger. 

“I thought the nobles made a point of distancing themselves from the Orlesians.” 

“Some do.” 

“Not you?” 

The old wolf snorted, the hard glint of cold humor clear through the slight twist of his mouth. Raviathan got the feeling he was missing something that should have been obvious. This was another in a long line of reminders of how little Raviathan knew of the world outside the alienage. Was he ever going to fit in? How were the other Wardens going to treat him? Loneliness started to press down on him, and he wished he could be with the other elves. Even if he were just a servant dodging the attention of shems, he’d have the comfort of his fellows again. His only friend was Duncan, a relief from the barrage of disgusted shems, but his mentor couldn’t protect him from all. 

With an internal shake, Raviathan pushed aside his concerns. Enough worry over these shems. Exhaustion was making him moody. Raviathan turned to the maps in an attempt to puzzle them out. This man was going to think him a fool no matter what he said, so it didn’t matter what he asked. Feeling curiously relieved from the noble’s judgment by that thought, Raviathan asked, “Why use these maps? Why not have these maps in the King’s Tongue?”

Oddly, Raviathan thought the noble approved of those questions. “The Orlesian cartographers were ordered to map Ostagar and the Korcari Wilds. They had plans to take over the Chasind land given time and fewer rebellions.” 

“They used Orlesian for naming areas? Wouldn’t that cause confusion when dealing with locals?”

The noble grumbled deep in his throat. His eyes, intense and cold as the frozen wastes in the south, roamed over the maps as if seeing the memories he had forged with the land through them. “Name a thing, and it is yours. Name your children, your pets. Name a battle and the blood spilt by every man is contained as if it were a single memory. A name is an imposition of will. When the Orlesians came, they tried to make this land theirs. A futile effort.” 

“Futile because we overthrew them? They have been successful in taking over other realms, like the Dalish homeland.” Raviathan wondered at the noble’s expression. Was his thin smile bitter or filled with triumph? The noble’s pupils were contracted to pinpricks giving his pale blue eyes an almost fevered intensity. Raviathan wasn’t sure if he liked this man or not, but he did respect him. 

“Is a child yours because you’ve named it? No. They have a life of their own no matter how you would seek to guide them, protect them. Say ‘Battle of West Hill’, but you do not know the pain or betrayal, the breaking of spirit or suffering behind that name. The land… rivers swell and dry, forests burn, avalanches change the face of a mountain, and yet… here it is.” The noble’s finger traced a winding line. “The Hafter River follows this same line as it did in all the ages of recorded history. The Frostbacks stood with the Old Gods of the Imperium. The only way to make the land yours is to know it. Know it’s twists and shapes, how it moves and shifts. Only then can you protect it. That is the reality the Orlesians never understood.” 

A finger gnarled with age and hard use traced a jagged line near the top. “The northern coast of the Waking Sea. Highever. Amaranthine. Denerim. Dragon’s Peak. Gwaren. Lothering. Redcliffe. Lake Calenhad. The Frostbacks. The Bannorn.” He point to each as he named the areas. “Knowing those points, can you locate where we are?” 

Amazing to see the land like this, thought Raviathan. The concept was alien, to see the land as a whole rather than roads and hills he had experienced for himself. Elves followed the roads, landmarks, pointed directions, but not maps. Maps were for plans. Maps calculated distances, the days spent on travel, expectations of the future. 

By contrast, most elves were focused on just getting through the day. When they had no money, there was a strange lightening of responsibility. When an elf had nothing, their only concern was their next meal, not saving for rent or the next day’s food. A day, an hour, they meant nothing. Time was shortened only to what happened in the moment. For many, life was work one day, starve the next. Though Raviathan had never starved, he knew well how his less fortunate kin thought. 

This was a startling revelation into the way human’s thought. Elves felt the seasons and planned their tiny gardens or the type of work available to them by intuition. The only real days were solstices, equinoxes, and the day that marked a new year. Other days bled into one another in a blur of time. Humans measured the hours by burning candles, the seasons with calendars, plotted the time to breed their animals or plan their fields. 

Raviathan looked at the dot that was Denerim, traced the line to Dragon’s Peak, then across the Bannorn to Redcliffe and the Frostbacks beyond. Weeks of travel made smaller by the canvas before him, as if so small a thing could hold the sum of his experiences. “I was here, near Redcliffe. Then south and east. What are these lines?” 

“The Imperial Highway.” 

“We cut across the forest, but then back to the Highway. So… around here?” 

The noble tapped a spot. “Here. Then the Korcari Wilds and wasteland to the south.” 

How different would life be for elves if they were able to get a tiny slice of prosperity? Raviathan nibbled his lip. Humans learned to plan as children, or at least the ones with land and money did. If the elves were able to gain a money enough to make a better life for themselves, would they have the skills to make use of their newfound resources? 

“Interesting choice of Duncan’s. Cailan was quite fascinated with you as well. Let’s hope you have some skill to compensate the Wardens beyond being a curiosity.” 

Of course, Raviathan thought with a tightening of his jaw. He was speaking to a shem, so the insults couldn’t be far away. “Afraid not. Duncan was only enchanted with my face. Apparently his new tactic is to woo the darkspawn into submission with elven loveliness.” 

Raviathan left without a by your leave. He heard the noble’s snort but there was no angry call or clank of armor to indicate pursuit. Whatever. He’s been insulted by enough shems in the last fortnight to last him the rest of his life. Raviathan left the wide hall, the initial rush of embarrassment wearing off quickly. The last day had been too full of experiences and not enough sleep. His temper was like boiling milk, suddenly overflowing but just as quickly settled. 

Why did that noble give him that lesson on reading a map? The shem was crafty, that was certain. As a soon to be Warden Raviathan would be part of an elite group and therefore a significant member against the darkspawn. Maybe to test him? That was the sort of tactic his mother would have used. Questions made a person shut down whereas engaging a person in a story or thought exercise could render clues and tells. Had he failed the last test with his sarcasm? 

Maybe he was reading too much into the conversation. Somehow, though, Raviathan didn’t think so. Whatever the noble’s opinion of him, Raviathan had gained a valuable lesson on human behavior. 

“You there. You’re the new Warden everyone’s talking about.” 

Interrupted from his ruminations, Raviathan saw a human with the dark skin of a northerner, probably from Rivaini ancestry. Behind him a makeshift kennel had been erected where a multitude of breeds were kept. Lean scent hounds, stalwart cart dogs, and the majestic mabari waited patiently for care or their next assignment. Nearly half of the dogs were recovering from injuries. A memory of swift mabari racing up carpeted steps flashed through Raviathan’s mind. Suppressing the memory, a skill he was becoming ever more practiced in, Raviathan turned to the kennel master. “Does everyone here know me? It’s most disconcerting.” 

The shem smiled at that. His face was weathered from exposure more than age, but his smile was good natured and put Raviathan at ease. Even with his easy smile, worry clung to the human. “Yes, I can imagine. Gossip spreads fast when soldiers have little to do but wait for the next battle. Gets their minds off of things.” 

“I suppose that’s true enough. Still feels odd though. Is there something you needed?” 

“Glad you asked. I’ve got this mabari here. Beautiful dog, credit to his breed. Poor fellow swallowed some of that darkspawn blood. Daveth said you new Wardens would be heading to the Wilds soon. I asked him to find a herb for me, but more eyes the better.” 

“Herb?” 

“White with a deep red center. Leaves are heart shaped. Called Dryad’s Tears.” The kennel master drew a rough sketch in the loose dirt at his feet. 

“I haven’t seen the like before. How did you find out about this herb?” 

“Er, well, don’t hold it against me for knowing, but the Chasind use it.” 

“That sounds like a story.” 

“Heh.” The kennel master gave him an embarrassed grin. “Ah. Couple generations back, on me mum’s side, grandfather had a, well, a run in with the Chasind. Decided he liked the smell of the wild folk over the Orlesians during the occupation. Got a few cousins in one of the tribes. Not that we’re close, but we’ve done some trade.” 

“Does Daveth know about your relations?”

“It’s the reason why he won’t come near me. Soon as he found out ain’t seen nothing but his backside retreating.” 

Raviathan laughed. “He was certainly white around the eyes. But I thought you were the King’s kennel master. You’re not from Denerim?” 

“Gwaren. Most of the dogs are down below nearer to the battle ground. I take care of the Teyrnir’s dogs and the injured. But if I can bother you for one more favor, I’d be in your debt.” 

“What is it?” 

“Darkspawn blood is making the dog mad. If not for the taint, I’d not worry about handling him, but… well, I’ve seen the soldiers who got some of that tainted blood in them. Can’t blame me for being cautious, now can you.” 

“But what is it you want me to do?”

“See, I can’t get near the dog’s wounds to treat him without fear of being bit. I be needing someone who can muzzle him. You’re a Warden. The taint won’t hurt you.”

Maker! What was it with shems? One second they were nice then the next unbearably rude. No wonder they were always at war with each other. “So if he savages me or rips my arm off, it’s no problem. I’m going to be a Warden fighting darkspawn. It’s not like I’ll need my arms for anything.” 

“Ah, don’t be like that. Mages are just right over there for healing if you need it. Please? I’ve already put down so many dogs. I can’t bear to see this one go. Not one fine as him.” 

Raviathan sighed. Times like this he thought he had a target painted on his forehead. “None of the other Wardens would help you?” If he became tainted before he joined the Wardens, would he still be able to gain their immunity? 

“Not a one would bother with me. Even Ser Jory turned his nose up. I got other dogs to care for, so it’s not like I have the time to hunt down and convince another Warden.” 

Taking the leather muzzle half heartedly, Raviathan went to the tainted mabari’s cage. The dog weighed almost twice what he did. When Raviathan neared, eyes red with blood glared at him. The dog snapped at the air, all flashing teeth and bulging muscle, jaws deadly as a bear trap. Maker, but this animal was a monster. Raviathan could feel the taint in the dog, not as strong as the blight wolves, but it was there, worming its way deeper and deeper into the animal. Could the dog be saved? 

Though fear tingled in Raviathan, the core instinct that made him want to flinch back from danger, he squashed it down. No fear. He pushed it away and returned the dog’s glare with his own. “Hey! You settle down right now. I’m not having any of this, you understand?” 

He probably looked a fool talking to a dog, but he ignored the feeling. Mabari were known for their intelligence, but any dog would recognize his tone. The dog, for his part, did back down. The dog’s madness disappeared in an instant, leaving only a gut wrenching pain as open as a wound. The animal hunched down, a keening whimper that cut straight into Raviathan’s heart. What was it about an animal’s pain that bypassed any emotional walls? Was it their purity of feeling? Or that they had so little choice over their fate? Raviathan blinked back tears as he slid through the bars. 

Raviathan knelt by the dog’s head all the while making soothing sounds. There was no resistance in the mabari anymore, only pain and the knowledge he was dying. Raviathan slipped the muzzle around the animal, buckling it into place without a hitch. He stayed there for a few minutes, scratching gently behind the dog’s ears as he talked. 

The dog actually knew he was dying. Raviathan could see it in the dog’s eyes, in the defeat of his hunched form. Was there any worse sort of torture? Knowing you were going to die in pain and going mad before you did? With care that no one would see, Raviathan let a little tendril of power flow out of his palm and into the dog’s neck. He couldn’t heal the taint, but this little spell, the first magic he had manifested when he was a child, would ease the dog’s suffering. As long as he kept his hand firmly on the dog’s skin, there would be no telltale fire of healing energy. The mabari’s eyes drooped given that little space of peace to rest, then he went to sleep with a final whimper. Raviathan left without a word, and the kennel master did not stop him. 

Morose after seeing the dying dog, Raviathan searched for some place where he could rest. Shrieks from the night before, Duncan learning his secret, night travel, and the seeming endless parade of shems had sapped the last of his resources. Now his heart was aching for an animal dying slowly and in great suffering. While he wanted to find a hidden spot where he could rest in peace, he was still awaiting the summons from Duncan. 

Glancing around, Raviathan decided the best spot was at the base of a little used ramp to the higher section of the fortress. The spot was secluded enough he could rest without anyone bothering him but still be visible for Duncan’s messenger. He set his sack down as a makeshift pillow, wrapped his cloak about himself, then settled in. He had never slept on the ground like this. Curling his legs up to his chest, he closed his eyes against the dappled shade. The scent of earth and pine, the background baying of dogs, the murmur of distant humans faded into the milieu. 

In the between as his soul opened to the Fade, the remembrance of arms around him, of soft elven breasts pressed to his bare back, the warmth of his wife’s sweet smelling skin was a lullaby to his frayed spirit. Her creator’s hands, strong and calloused from use, had been his hope for a new life—a life with children—an act of creation they would have shared. In his dream those arms held him, soothed him as if no time had passed from his departure, as if the miles could not separate them. United, they would bring something precious into the world, a creation made solely of love. Her existence was like his magic, a source of love and creation, pure and bright as if his own personal sun danced in his heart.


	29. Plans and Tactics – Brothers

Voices slowly brought Raviathan back from the Fade. He rose to consciousness as if swimming up from a deep pool warmed by the sun. Amazing how a nap could rejuvenate a weary soul. He blinked as he took in his surroundings: trees and stone, fog muting the sun, dogs barking, the two humans arguing in the clearing before him. One was in mage robes while the other wore splint armor. Raviathan watched them, blinking the sleep from his eyes. 

“Yes, I was disturbing you by delivering a message,” the man in splint mail said. Raviathan couldn’t help a smile. He stretched a bit, rotating his neck and shoulders, flexing his back to hear a multitude of pops. The dream of Nesiara had made him loose and warm as his time with the female soldiers had not. He remained curled up, content to watch the scene between the two. The man in splint mail was actually quite funny. He was good looking—for a human. Wide cheekbones and a strong jaw. A shade of peach fuzz gave him a rugged aspect that somehow complimented his military short, dark blond hair. He certainly had the build for a soldier. 

The mage left in a huff of swirling robe. Raviathan thought the mage must have practiced that move just for the sake of being able to make a dramatic exit. The soldier stared off at the retreating mage, grumbling about Chantry mothers. Raviathan chuckled, and the soldier turned at the sound. 

The soldier gaped at him. Shems had a habit of staring at him, but this man looked like he had been slapped upside the head with a fish. 

“Cat got your tongue, shem?” Time for lunch anyway. Raviathan stretched out his legs then ran his fingers through his hair. It was getting rather long. He brushed off his cloak and picked up his sack of meager possessions and healer’s kit. When he looked up, the shem was still staring at him. Raviathan frowned. “You need something?” 

With a start, the human shook himself. “Sorry. You wouldn’t happen to be Duncan’s newest recruit, would you?” 

“I am.” Raviathan suppressed a sigh. Another shem who needed something? Would he ask Raviathan to collect twenty bear asses from the Wilds? 

“Oh, good. I’ve been looking for you.” A guileless smile added charm to the human’s face. 

“Is that so?” Raviathan finished settling his kit and sack so they were secure and out of his way. 

“I’m Alistair, the most junior of the Grey Wardens. I’ll be escorting you in the Wilds.” His smile dropped. “Um, I’m sorry. I’m not good with names. They told me…”

“Rav.” Raviathan quickened his pace to meet the human. This was one of the legendary Grey Wardens? He was so… goofy. “So we’re definitely going into the Wilds then?” 

“Oh. You’ve heard about that? It was supposed to be a secret.” 

Raviathan allowed a mysterious smile and left his comment at that. 

“Huh. I think I’m going to have to watch out for you.” 

“Or just stay on my good side.” 

“Duly noted,” Alistair said dryly. “Is that going to be difficult?”

Raviathan let out a breath. He did owe Duncan a better attempt than he had been making. “Duncan asked me to get along.” 

Alistair chuckled. “He said the same to me. Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered delivering that message.” 

Despite his shortened temper, Raviathan found himself smiling in response. “You don’t like mages?”

“Oh, I’m fine with mages. As long as they don’t turn me into a toad, we get along swimmingly.” 

“Yes, I could see.” So far Alistair seemed nice enough. Not that first impressions meant much with humans, fickle as their natures were. 

“So,” Alistair said to fill in the silence as they walked, “just out of curiosity, have you ever encountered a darkspawn before?” 

“Have you?” 

“Yes. Only once though. I just want to warn you before you see one. They can be terrifying creatures. The taint, once you feel it, it’s like nothing else. Just remember, their blood may be black, but they bleed all the same. At least, that’s what Duncan says.” 

Only fought darkspawn once? “Haven’t you fought in the battles thus far?” 

“Well, no.” Alistair rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been kept out of the main fighting. Work along the supply chain, relay messages, that sort of thing. Now that we have more recruits, I expect I’ll be fighting soon. Tonight in all likelihood.” 

“How long have you been a Warden?”

“About six months now.” 

Raviathan mulled that information over. Alistair was still young. Perhaps Duncan wanted him to have more experience first. That still seemed overly cautious though. Was the human a coward, begging off fighting because he was afraid of the darkspawn? 

“Yeah,” Alistair continued to prattle on. “Duncan saw me at a tourney. I owe him a lot for recruiting me. Maker, anything to get me out of the templars was a blessing.” 

Heart thudding, Raviathan felt his blood turn to ice, little crystalline shards numbing his hands and feet. His stomach clenched as the hated word rang in his ears. Templar. Mage hunter. No, not in the Wardens. Not one of them. 

Seemingly oblivious to Raviathan’s reaction, the Templar chatted nonsense as he led Raviathan through the camp. A templar of all things! Why by the Maker’s bloody ass did Duncan send a templar? He hadn’t even warned Raviathan that there was a templar in the Wardens. Was this some kind of test? 

Damn shems. Damn them all. Of course the nice, harmless looking shem would be a templar. There wasn’t a single one of them who wasn’t a backstabbing, lying, traitorous… 

“…according to legend, the fog around here was caused by werewolves ages ago. Don’t know exactly how they managed that. Werewolves creating fog. Do they emit mist or something?” 

…idiotic, overbearing, ruthless…

“Then there are those stories about dryads and wisps luring people to their deaths. Who would follow a strange, bobbing light in the forest though? You’d have to be nutters to leave common sense behind like that.” 

…disgusting son of a bastard. Bastards the lot of them. Bastards and sons of bastards. 

“There’s Ser Jory and Daveth now.” 

The only thing that calmed Raviathan’s anger was Duncan’s look of shock at seeing the templar. “Alistair. I ordered Tamriel to gather the recruits.” 

“Yes, Duncan, but the King wanted to speak him, so he asked me. Besides, it’s the most junior Warden who escorts the new recruits.” Alistair shifted nervously as if worried he had done something wrong. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” Duncan said resuming his brisk manner as Commander. 

Raviathan caught a quick flash of apology from Duncan, enough that he understood Duncan’s intent without hinting to the others that there was sensitive information. A tiny bit of resentment lingered, but Raviathan knew he had already forgiven Duncan and was just waiting for his temper to settle. Raviathan’s temper had been horrid today. He would need more than a nap to settle his nerves. Sleep and a respite from a looming battle would even him out. 

“You three will be going into the Korcari Wilds.” 

Daveth’s shoulders slumped while Jory’s small eyes widened at the news. With a start, Raviathan recognized Jory as the pinheaded knight who had been at prayer earlier that morning. Oh, wonderful. Jory glanced at him, his lips thin, as a shared understanding that they were not going to be friends passed between them. Maker, how much worse could this day get? Not that Raviathan expected to get along with everyone in the Wardens, but first a templar and now this pompous bag of piety? Raviathan issued a mental stream of cursing that impressed even him. Maker’s swollen, virulent cock. The rest of the Wardens were not looking promising.

His attention returned when crystal cut vials were handed to each recruit. 

“As part of your Joining, you will be required to gather three vials of blood from darkspawn you have killed yourselves,” Duncan said. 

“But, but, isn’t the blood toxic?” Jory asked. 

“It is. However, you will be immune to that toxicity as a Grey Warden.” 

Jory glanced at the other two recruits, measuring their reactions. When he saw calm from Raviathan and Daveth, the knight’s face pinched, the lines of his nostrils deepening as if he was standing by the privy runoff. “How long before the taint takes effect? Will we be able to return in time if we become tainted?” 

“Most definitely,” Duncan said. “This has been part of the Joining for ages. Conquering your fear of darkspawn and knowledge of the taint are required to be a part of our Order.” 

“Makes sense,” Daveth said with a shrug. 

“In addition,” Duncan continued, “there was once an outpost here. The main hoard has shift further west, so the area should be passable by now. Though the outpost may be in ruins, I would like you to check for some treaties of the Grey Wardens. With the darkspawn forces amassing, we will need to remind certain parties of their obligations. Tension is growing among the dwarves last I visited Orzammar, and I am encountering greater resistance from the Circle. The treaties should only be a formality; however, luck favors the prepared.” 

“Treaties? Out here,” Alistair asked, his brow furrowing. “Seems an odd place to stash them.” 

“During Sophia’s time. The Wardens expected to return to the outpost when the civil war was over.” 

“All this time and in this climate?” Raviathan shook his head. “Parchment wouldn’t last two hundred years.” 

“Lyrium etched,” Duncan said. 

Lyrium, Raviathan thought in wonder. He had heard his aunt’s account of the substance, how it felt like pure magic being infused into her body. The suffuse of magic was intoxicating. Solyn said she felt like she was lighter than air, flying, that colors were brighter, that with the substance becoming one with her soul, all things seemed possible. The Chantry’s control of the elixir meant that any lyrium that could be found outside the Circle was smuggled, worth as much as gold, and marked one instantly as an apostate or in league with apostates. While Solyn mourned the loss of the precious liquid, acquiring it would be worth more than their lives. Raviathan thrilled with the possibility of seeing the stuff even if it were unusable by him. 

With the rest of the instructions given, the party moved out by the west gate and down the winding path that lead south then east to the wilds below. Alistair led as he was the only one who had been outside the main fortress. Daveth caught Raviathan’s arm so the two could hang back from the others. 

“Alright, elf. How’d you do it?”

“Do what?” 

“That girl.” 

Raviathan blinked in shock then narrowed his eyes, giving the shem a disgusted glare. “I am not speaking of that. Do not ask again.” 

Daveth frowned at the elf. “Maker, you are a touchy one.” 

“Touchy?” He stopped, shoving Daveth so the two were facing each other. “What I do with a woman is none of your business. Do you understand that?” 

Surprised, Daveth took a step back. “No. I mean, how’d you talk her into ‘er tent? Surely that ain’t a secret.” 

“You… want to know how I convinced her?” 

“Yeah. You thought…” Daveth laughed, an easy sound, and Raviathan could see the laugh lines that would develop over the years. “No, nothing like that. Trust me, once I get them there, I know exactly what I’m doing.” Hands on his hips, Daveth thrust his pelvis out, a cocky grin on his face. “Oh yeah. Only satisfied darlings in my wake.” 

His smile turning into a chuckle, Raviathan resumed walking. Daveth wasn’t so bad, and it would be good to have an ally in the Wardens. “She wasn’t hard.”

“For you. Come on. Give a bloke some tips.”

Ahead of them, Jory sniffed in disdain. Raviathan raised an eyebrow at the knight’s back, but it wasn’t like they were going to get along any time soon. Who cared what that shem thought. 

“Two things you’ve got to understand,” Raviathan said. “One, everyone here is afraid, so they’re all looking for ways to relieve that stress. Add in some boredom as we wait around for a battle, that nervous energy needs a release. Some gamble, others spar.” 

“So why didn’t she go for me?” 

Raviathan shook his head. “Because you went about it all wrong. Look, she’s pretty. She’s got guys like you going after her from every direction. Her defenses are up, and all that attention makes some women feel slimy. They’re tired of being pawed at and men only wanting to use them. What you do is not come on to her. Get her attention, see if you can make her laugh, be interesting, but don’t be sexual. In fact, look like sex is the last thing on your mind. Once she’s comfortable and interested, you start moving away. Have her come after you. That puts her in control, so she’s the one deciding what she’s going to do rather than being pressured by what you want from her.” 

Daveth looked gob smacked. “But, how do you know she’ll follow you?” 

“If you’ve been interesting, she’ll being interested in return. I told you before; everyone is afraid. She wants the pressure of battle gone. Not be reminded of it,” Raviathan said, emphasizing the last statement. 

“Ah, Maker.” Daveth’s shoulders slumped, head leaning back in realization. “Never thought of it like that.” 

The two continued to talk as they moved further and further from the fortress. Twice Jory looked back at them in disgust, the second time earning a two fingered gesture from Daveth at his armored back. 

Once they were in the valley, Raviathan glanced up at the fortress. From here the battlements seemed unassailable, lonely as mountain crags and as uncaring as it stared centuries out across the endless winds. Stone blended seamlessly from the rugged cliffs, the whole backdrop blurred by a haze of fog. The Tower of Ishal stood in lonely silence, a slowly crumbling soldier that had lost his purpose long ago. The scent of stale bog water permeated the air. Though the swamp was fertile with moss draped trees, mangroves, and thick clumps of vegetation, there was the underlying scent of decay. 

The Wilds were like a rotting corpse with maggots feasting, death with life growing out of that death, Raviathan thought. A desiccated log teemed with a long row of bright purple mushrooms on pale stocks, no doubt poisonous. Life grew in this place, succumbed back into earth, and grew again, each time turning a shade darker. The Wilds were alive in the way a parasite is alive, leaching off a weakening host, killing its own source of life in a ruthless drive for survival. With care not to touch, Raviathan cut a few of the mushrooms with a knife, letting them fall into an empty jar he kept in his healer’s kit. 

“You know what that is?”

Raviathan glanced up at Daveth. The two knights had moved further down the path, Jory turning to cast another irritated glance their way. Jory was worse than some nervous aunt fluttering over them, Raviathan thought. “Looks poisonous. Thought I’d check them out later.” 

“Heh. Exotic too. Won’t be many who know what it is or how to respond.” 

The mist clung to Raviathan like a cold sweat, making his clothing and armor an irritant. Speaking of irritants… Raviathan glanced up to see the other two were far enough ahead not to overhear them. “Say, what do you know about Alistair?” 

“Him?” The rogues resumed following, their voices hushed in confidential tones. “Nice enough guy. Been itching to fight. Decent fighter, so I don’t know why they’re keeping him out of the battles. He and Duncan are really close.” 

“They are?”

“Yeah. Follows the old man around like a puppy. Duncan favors him too. Not so much it’s a problem for the rest of the Wardens, but I see it. Wardens are fond of Alistair too, like he’s everyone’s little brother.” Daveth shrugged. “Eh. The old man is fair, so it don’t bother me none.” 

Nibbling his lip, Raviathan thought that over. Duncan wouldn’t know to warn him about Alistair until last night. Given what happened with the darkspawn ambush, Duncan forgetting was understandable. In fact, his Commander was probably overwhelmed with concerns now that they had joined the rest of the army. That Duncan favored Alistair might be troublesome if Raviathan hadn’t caught the flash of apology from his Commander. What in the Maker’s name was he going to do about the templar though? Were the Wardens truly immune from the politics of the Chantry? Unease turned Raviathan’s stomach as he watched the mage hunter’s back. 

Distance was difficult to measure in the Wilds as the path twisted, vision reduced to the next bend of moss dripping tees, looping vines, and enveloping mist. Only the occasional lake allowed any depth to the forest, a dark mirror with a sporadic ripple from some unseen underwater dweller snapping an insect out of the thick air. Frogs and insects hummed, a continuous drone that reduced Raviathan’s ability to sense sound. He felt like he walked with a layer of wet wool wrapped around his head, the fog of the swamp slowing his mind, making him feel half asleep and dull. 

The heavy copper stench was their only warning. Rounding a bend, the bodies of humans littered a small clearing. Raviathan gazed at the bodies, his chest tightening. Why should he be effected so? He had caused a greater loss of life at Vaughan’s estate. Blood and fire filled his memory, emotions he couldn’t name chasing him down. Pools or deepening red absorbed by soil, absorbed by carpets. Armored bodies, scattered, cut, ripped, blood pouring out like water from a cracked jug. 

“Darkspawn,” Alistair said. 

“Darkspawn did all this?” Jory turned a sickly, almost green shade. 

Couldn’t he feel the taint? Raviathan shut the memories down. He couldn’t afford such distractions now they were now in dangerous territory. This was the discipline his aunt had taught him, the ability to shut down his emotions so he could heal his friends and neighbors, the cold, clinical distance necessary for him to work effectively instead of giving in to the panic his love wanted to let flow. 

The taint on the soldiers was not as strong as the blight wolves, but it was as pervasive as the mist. A dozen or so men lay in the clearing. Kneeling, Raviathan examined the soldiers’ wounds while Daveth inspected the bodies for coin. The wounds were rough, jagged tears, more like the rip of lacerations than cuts from a weapon. Raviathan would expect that kind of injury from an animal’s teeth but these were longer. Claws perhaps? Shrieks would leave these types of injuries, but Duncan said those darkspawn were very rare. Besides, the wounds were not in rows like claws would make. If not claws, darkspawn weaponry must be primitive. 

A moan brought Raviathan from his thoughts. 

“Well. Looks like he’s not completely dead,” Alistair said when one of the soldiers moved. 

What an assholish thing to say! But then, why should he be surprised that templars lacked any sense of compassion. Pulling his healer’s kit around Raviathan hurried to the soldier. After fumbling with the soldier’s armor, Raviathan examined the wound in his side. He spoke as he worked. “It’s not deep. I’m going to pack elfroot over your wound. That will disinfect and start the healing. Once you’re back at the fortress, you’ll need stitches. Are you injured anywhere else?” 

“My… thigh.” The soldier gestured. 

“Daveth, hold his head up and give him water. Not too fast, just sips.” Raviathan had to cut the man’s trousers away. “You’re lucky. A few more inches and your artery would have been damaged.” 

“Lucky?” Jory said. “A scouting party, dead except one man? The Grey Wardens must have gathered enough blood by now. Why are we even here?” 

“Seriously?” Raviathan raised an eyebrow at Jory, his hands wrapping up the soldier’s injury with oft practice care. “You want to be a Grey Warden? What do you think we’ll be asked to do?” 

“Not collect blood for no reason,” Jory countered. “Battle I understand, but only the four of us out here? This is just busy work. I expect better tactics from the Wardens.” 

“Calm,” Alistair said. Raviathan’s jaw tightened at the templar’s attempt at a soothing voice. Damn bloody hypocrite. No good mage hunting psychopath. “Ser Jory, we’ll be fine. We’re not near the main horde.” 

“These scouts weren’t fine!” The knight blustered. “A dozen men. Killed. What chance do the four of us have? This is reckless.” 

“Careful you don’t wet your armor, ser knight,” Daveth said, winking at Raviathan. 

“I am not a coward, or a degenerate,” Jory sneered. “I have a wife heavy with child. I’m not going to through my life away on some pointless task.” 

Wife? Child? Duncan hadn’t told him? The other Wardens hadn’t said anything? “Help me get him to his feet,” Raviathan said to Daveth. “We’ll get you back to camp.” 

“I can make it,” the soldier said. 

“We must complete our tasks and be back before sunset,” Alistair said. 

“We’re ten minutes or so from the perimeter guards.” Raviathan stood and glared, one of the soldier’s arms over his shoulders. “We’re going to help him that far.” 

“We don’t have time,” Alistair continued, but Raviathan ignored him. He started back, and Daveth, holding the soldier from the other side, had no choice but to follow. “But…” Alistair said to the elf’s back. “We don’t have time.” 

Alistair blinked. After a moment, shoulders slumping, he followed. 

 

~o~O~o~

 

Raviathan tugged at his clothes, hating the way they clung. All the cold mist was making him feel dirty and weighed down. Raviathan rotated his arms in large circles to help ease the hold of chilled numbness in his hands. The mist coated the Wilds so that even the sun was only a suggestion. Raviathan wondered if this was how it felt to go slowly blind, the grey swallowing up details and color. 

“Why do you even want to be a Warden,” Daveth asked Jory. “You do realize they fight darkspawn, don’t you?” 

“I am not a fool.” Raviathan didn’t glance back at the knight’s statement though he did want to contest it. “I’ve been in battle before. Real battle,” Jory said with contempt. “There is a great difference between matched combatants and walking into danger with foolhardy abandon.” 

“Quiet,” Raviathan said, pitching his voice low and solid with authority. Just like the children in the alienage, the two obeyed. For love of the Maker, those two had been arguing since they started back into the Wilds. Raviathan paused, cupping a hand around one ear. His head turned in quick movements, like a bird, as he tried to pinpoint the sounds that had caught his attention. “Stay here.” 

Crouched low, Raviathan scurried up the hill on his hands and toe tips. He slowed when he reached the top, careful to stay behind the ferns that covered the top of the grassy hill. The darkspawn were too far away for him to feel their taint. Raviathan glanced back at the party below, put a finger to his lips, then beckoned them forward to see the battle. 

Wolves and darkspawn squared off. The wolves were panicked, corned by ruins on one side and darkspawn on the other three. Raviathan recognized a genlock from the corpse back at camp. Human sized darkspawn, which must be hurlocks based on Duncan’s description, stalked forth with large, wickedly curved swords at the ready. The wolves barked and howled, backing further against the stone ruins. 

Raviathan had never liked wolves. They were responsible for food shortages, killing off much needed protein, driving up already high prices on scarce goods. Elves travelling to their new city for marriage were attacked during winter, sometimes leaving scars for him to heal, sometimes leaving a family bereft. Seeing the wolves attacked now held no satisfaction for Raviathan. He understood their fear too well. 

“Should we attack?” Daveth whispered. 

“Let them soften each other up first,” Jory said. 

For the first time, Raviathan was in agreement with Jory. If they intervened and killed the darkspawn, the wolves could run or just as likely attack them in panic. No matter how much he disliked wolves, Raviathan couldn’t help but feel he was being mercenary. 

A shriek of pain sliced the air as a burning arrow pierced a wolf’s side. The genlocks, three of them, took aim and fired again. Two wolves shot forward. One leapt high, taking a hurlock by the throat, while the other hit low. The hurlock fell to the ground, the wolves savaging him. Even as they bit, the wolves whined in confusion and pain. The taint, Raviathan realized. No matter what the outcome of the fight was, these animals were dead. They were either killed outright by the darkspawn or were poisoned by the taint. Raviathan felt sick. He didn’t like wolves, but this was needlessly cruel. 

The last of the wolves killed, Raviathan and the others moved to kill the remaining darkspawn. Staying under cover of the brush, Raviathan and Daveth shot arrows at the remaining monsters. The last hurlock charged them while the three genlocks fired in return. Alistair and Jory met the hurlock in a side depression of the hill that helped keep them out of line from the arrows. Metal rang out as they fought. The death cries of the genlocks were like nothing Raviathan had ever heard. Not quite a growl or a mewl, the squat monsters dropped with a guttural sound like deep earth groaning. 

A dark laugh vibrated into Raviathan’s bones like low thunder, and Raviathan felt a chill crawl up his spine like a spawning nest of spiders. The unnaturalness of the taint pushed at him like a physical force, pressing against his throat, choking, nauseous. Hidden by the ruins before, a huge hurlock started forward in an overly smooth, bent knee gate as if the creature was a shade and not fully of this world. The heavy muscle of the large darkspawn was at odds with its starved frame. Hip bones jutted from a narrow waist, but the hurlock’s shoulders were half as wide as Raviathan was tall. Thin horns curved out of its helmet, the only piece of armor that was not in shambles. The rest, chunks of stiff leather and drapes of broken chainmail, covered parts of the monster in a hodgepodge. 

The hunched monster raised two wickedly curved blades, a style of sword Raviathan had never seen before. That monster was laughing. Those things were capable of laughter? Raviathan’s arrow went wide, his hands trembling too much to shoot well. He fell to one knee, head bowed, as he fought not to throw up. 

“Wake up, elf.” Daveth shook his shoulder. “Just pretend that thing called you knife ears.” 

Thankful for Daveth’s presence, Raviathan managed a weak smile. The jest was the distraction he needed to distance himself from the pressure of the taint. He examined the lumbering monster headed towards the knights. The darkspawn’s size intimidated him, but at least he could see this creature unlike the shadow stalkers from the previous evening. 

Raviathan and Daveth slung their bows then moved to intercept the bigger hurlock, swords and knives drawn. The two of them were better suited to sneaking or flanking a foe then a head on fight. With surprising ease, Raviathan found he could coordinate with Daveth only a few words or looks. Just the way Daveth’s quick footwork led him to the monster’s right flank, Raviathan knew he was to keep the hurlock’s attention. Raviathan would be the defender, pressing the hurlock to keep the monster’s attention on him, while Daveth would take offense at the rear. 

Whirling his blades in a flash of display, Raviathan kept the hurlock’s attention as Daveth thrust his sword upward, into the hurlock’s torso and further inside the monster’s wide ribcage. Aside from a roar, the monster seemed unaffected. It didn’t slow, didn’t even hesitate to bring its blades down to slice at Raviathan. Raviathan knelt, catching the monster’s swords in the crux of an X made by his own blades. The hurlock was double his weight, most of that muscle, forcing him down with a grunt of pain, his shoulders on fire from shock and strain. Daveth continued to poke at the monster’s back with all the effect of a mosquito. 

Air whooshed over Raviathan’s head, and Jory’s claymore bit halfway into the hurlock’s throat. Black blood sputtered out, raining down on Raviathan in fat, burning drops. Revolted, Raviathan leaped back from his kneeling position, misjudged his balance on the wet slope of grass, tried to regain it in a few back steps, a series of ridiculous hops, and finally landed on his ass to skid halfway down the slope. Raviathan didn’t care that the others were laughing at him. He scrapped his face against the grass in an desperate attempt to get the burning blood off his face. Maker help him, it was in his hair. How by the Fires was he going to get the sticky stuff out of his hair? 

“Be thankful, elf,” Jory said, a smirk twisting his mouth. 

Raviathan wanted to punch him in his fat, broken, potato like nose. “Yeah. Thanks for getting that tainted blood all over me.”

“Andraste bless my sword, let it always protect my brothers,” Jory intoned. 

Snatching his blades from the ground, Raviathan stomped up to the large hurlock to get his vial filled. 

“Now, now,” Jory said, the smug smile still on his face. “The blood has to come from a darkspawn you killed. Personally.” 

Insufferable shems. Ignoring the idiot, Raviathan stooped to the hurlock and used his knife to pry the wound so the thick blood would run without touching his fingers. At the sound of a slap, he looked back over his shoulder. Jory and Daveth glared at each other. Though Raviathan wasn’t sure what happened, he knew those two caused the sound. 

“Let him alone, you bloody pillock,” Daveth said. 

“Keep your hands off me,” Jory said.

“Oh-ho. Look who’s grown a spine all sudden like.”

“Duncan said we needed to kill the darkspawn ourselves.” 

“So? See those wee little beasties over there.” Daveth pointed to the dead genlocks laying like lumps of cancer on the land. “Tainted blood is tainted blood.” 

“Then he can take their tainted blood if he was the one who killed them. This is my kill.” 

Maker’s ass, Raviathan thought with an inward groan. He was going to be stuck with that idiot in the Wardens for how many years? As if the templar weren’t bad enough. 

“We kept that thing off you,” Daveth continued, a finger pointing but not touching Jory’s chest. The fight was getting worse, but that templar just stood there like a lazy toad. Wasn’t he supposed to lead them, or guide at the very least? “Took you long enough with that bit of wimp. How’d you think you’d do with this hulk coming down on you. You should be thankful, ser Knight of the Armor Puddles.” 

Jory raised a fist, but Raviathan stepped between them to push Jory’s arm back. “Stop it! Both of you. Daveth, thank you for defending me, but you go too far. Jory, as a knight, you should remember your honor. Now,” Raviathan continued before either man could object, “get your vials and fill them. We still have to find the treaties and get back or risk being caught off-footed in the battle tonight. Kill each other after the battle if you must, but for now you will remember we are in hostile territory. This is not the time to lose your heads.” 

Jory opened his mouth to speak, but at Raviathan’s hard stare, closed it. Raviathan could see the knight’s resentment, but there was also resignation. At least for now the knight would listen. 

Curious, Raviathan walked up the slope to the ruins as the other two filled their own vials. At the top was the freshly killed body of a human, half his side devoured by the wolves. Flat brown hair, a young face with wide features, the acolyte lay in his tattered robes that gave him no protection from the beasts of this world. The body’s bowels were pierced, evident by the stench of waste. Death held no dignity, not for anyone. Not for kings or elves or the faithful. 

The man wore the robes of an Andrastian acolyte. The only reason for a follower of Andraste to be out here was to convert followers. Wolves come in all shapes, Raviathan thought as he gazed at the placid face, the acolyte’s soul now far from pain. Wolves in the shape of monsters, wolves in the shape of pious men, both preyed on the vulnerable in their own ways. Raviathan found a small wooden flute, a leather bound holy book, and the man’s journal. 

A cursory glance of the journal proved Raviathan’s suspicions that the man was indeed a missionary, although, instead of Dalish as Raviathan had initially thought, the human had taken on the dubious task of converting Chasind. If half of what Daveth had said was true, this dead man was a faith blinded fool. The acolyte’s journal started off recounting his efforts to save the heathens, but as Raviathan continued to flip forward, more and more details focused on the lives of the Chasind. Sketches of types of dress, observations of behavior, and brief bits of tribal history pointed to a man more receptive to the Chasind’s way than Raviathan had given him credit for. 

Raviathan blew on the whistle, testing out the incomplete notes the acolyte had scribbled down. A mellow sound, soft edged like wind blowing over reeds, carried the tune that resembled bird song. Perhaps the music was too fast for the acolyte to recapture as only a few notes were depicted. Perhaps the acolyte didn’t know much about music. Skimming another few pages, Raviathan saw the acolyte’s handwriting change to an excited scrawl as the simple, little tunes equated to messages the Chasind sent each other. How clever, Raviathan thought. An outsider would only hear the same background sounds of the swamp while the Chasind could coordinate an attack or communicate with other tribes at a safe distance. 

“What was that,” an annoyed voice drawled. 

None of you business, Raviathan thought at the templar who finished climbing the last few yards up the hill. The other two were at his heals, pointedly ignoring each other. 

“Missionary killed by the wolves,” Raviathan said. 

Alistair lowered his head and recited a prayer for the fallen. Jory dipped his head as well, a closed fist over his heart. Raviathan kept from rolling his eyes at the display. The Maker took this man’s soul to His side or he did not. Some scant mutterings would not be heard as no prayers were ever heard anymore. The days of the Maker’s mercy were long gone. 

At the sound of whines, Raviathan left the knights to their pretensions. Behind the ruins, the hill dropped low to a lake, the Wilds a dull green labyrinth that faded into mist. Small yowling growls carried up from a ledge set in the steep slope. Listening carefully, Raviathan lowered himself to the ledge, following it to a small den hidden by brush. 

Inside the den were wolf pups. Raviathan’s chest contracted in a deep ache as he stared at the sight. This is why the wolves didn’t try to break through the darkspawn. Three cubs, but two were dead. One had a pool of bile spread out from its mouth, his fur broken open with spikes, bones twisted until the little creature broke. The second dead pup had been savaged before the taint could take effect. Tiny teeth holes pointed to fratricide. The living brother snarled, snapped wildly as the sick mabari had, growled with red eyes staring rage and madness. The cub shivered, emitted a pain filled squeal that choked off as its head twisted. Ripping sounded as fresh blood splattered the cave in tiny droplets. Bone spikes stuck out of the cub’s neck. It gnashed its teeth, cutting up its tongue in the process. 

Maker’s breath. What kind of world was this to be so cruel? 

 

~o~O~o~

 

Alistair glanced around, concern furrowing his brow as he searched. Just before he called out, Alistair spied the elf walking up from the far side of the ruins. “Oh. There you are. Don’t walk off like that, not without telling the rest of us. It’s still dangerous out here.” 

The elf didn’t speak. He knelt by the priest to use a section of robe to clean blood off his dagger. 

“Did something happen?” Alistair asked. “I didn’t sense any darkspawn that way. Not near here at least.” 

“It’s nothing.” 

Alistair frowned at the elf in confusion. That a voice that deep and strong came from such a small man disconcerted him, almost as much as seeing those jewel bright cat eyes blinking at him back at Ostagar. Maker’s breath but he was a strange one. As inscrutable as a stone wall. Jory and Daveth were both easy to get to know over the past weeks, their views plainly made to any willing to hear. 

Would Rav survive? Out of the three, he thought the elf had the least chance for survival. Duncan must have seen something in the recruit that Alistair was missing. The elf seemed too delicate and, despite the chat he had with Daveth concerning women which still made Alistair’s ears burn, too refined. Part of what made Alistair laugh when the elf fell was that it was so unexpected, like a swan crashing into a tree. 

That strange, little elf sparked a memory Alistair hadn’t thought about in years. Lady Isolde had fine porcelain tea cups she had brought with her from Orlais, antiques inherited from her grandmother. Packed in softest cotton, each was exquisitely painted with tiny, perfect strokes to create vivid gardens, animated birds in flowering trees, or gently rolling landscapes so unlike the rough terrain of Ferelden Alistair knew as home. The cups were only brought out when another noble visited, and then only for an arlessa or higher. Alistair was never allowed to touch them and could only glimpse the finery under the harsh eyes of Lady Isolde. 

The elf, curled up like a cat in the dappled sunlight, watching him quietly, had made Alistair think of those cups, how the elf and porcelain were both part of something that was beyond Alistair, just as those delicate tea cups would be amidst roughly hammered tin tankards. The beauty of that porcelain was fragile and far too easily broken. Alistair had broken one of those fine cups and had locked himself in a dungeon cell all day to hide from the Lady of Redcliffe’s wrath. 

Not that hiding had helped much. At least Lady Isolde had vented her copious amounts of frustration upon her Lord Husband before Alistair was found. By the late evening, she had only cold disdain for the lowly bastard boy, disdain that never left no matter how he had tried to placate her.

Why was he thinking about that now? 

The elf continued down the slope without a backwards glance, leaving the others rushing to catch up.


	30. Magic in the Mists

Moss hung down in thick, frayed ropes, tinting the anemic sunlight of the Wilds green. Raviathan gingerly touched one of the many gnarled roots that were slowly breaking the ruin apart. Perhaps the roots were the only thing keeping the roof from collapsing. Not that anyone would miss this ruin once it was gone. This wreckage had been left for two hundred years in the care of a swamp that existed to devour corpses. Nature would will out in the end, especially here. Vines insinuated themselves in every fissure, pushing, forever imposing, twisting until the stone floor was nothing more than a suggestion of where Wardens once trod. 

Was this Tevinter design? Not that Raviathan knew much of anything about architecture. This did have pointed arches like he had seen at Ostagar, but that’s as far as he could compare. The passages twisted or turned about without rhyme or reason. Part of maze was design; the other part was the inevitable breakdown of the old fort. Corridors fractured like bones as the treasonous swamp below shifted its support. One passage had been sheared in half, the floor jutting out into air followed by a five foot drop to the decrepit path below, a crevice which housed a nest of rats as long as Raviathan’s forearm. 

Shafts of tepid light from the cracked ceiling were the only things that kept Raviathan going down the tunnel. There was some light, some air to give him the illusion of escape from this trap should the stones suddenly decide to crumble. Something about the heavy dust turned muck, the smell of rotting, wet bog that suffused the air that set him on edge. Raviathan had never felt claustrophobic before. He had heard other elves talk of the sensation when they were stuck cleaning dungeons for extensive periods. They spoke of weight, of being able to feel all the stones above them, pressing down, pushing down on them, turning the rooms they working into crushing, lightless, traps. Never before had Raviathan been able to feel this sense of weight, the dread of stones compressing his lungs, breaking bones, no air except for a few, desperate, painful wracks before his body gave out. 

The cloying dust did not help. All around him was stone ready to squeeze him into pulp. Raviathan wanted out. At the mere sight of a tunnel running further underground, deep into the lightless bowels, he was overcome with an unshakable sense of lurking danger. His imagination was turning this expedition into a horror story that wasn’t there. Just fear of the dark, he told himself. That darkness was not the same as the night, even cloud filled nights where the stars hid their austere points of hope. Here, the very air was stolen from him. 

“Buck up, elf,” Daveth whispered near him. 

“I look that nervous?” Raviathan was surprised. His mother had taught him to make a mask of his face when needed, but he had been out of practice. Raviathan resisted nibbling at his lip as he mentally reviewed his mother’s mantra. She had spent hours with him, teaching him to become aware of his facial muscles, how each felt when pulled, her fingers as light as a spirit on his face as he gradually learned her arts. Raviathan wondered for a second if that discipline had disappeared so quickly. 

“Heh. Not that I’d want to play wicked grace against you anytime soon,” Daveth said, a crooked grin on his easy face. “But your sword jerks at every twig snap. Ain’t nothing in here except them rats.” 

The glint of mischief in Daveth’s face told Raviathan that the thief knew elves regularly ate rats. If Daveth made a joke at the expense of his starving kin, Raviathan would have punched him, but the thief seemed to know he was pushing his limits. 

A voice called from the front, “Is there a problem?” 

Having been caught at letting his emotions show, Raviathan resisted the impulse to clench his jaw or glare at the templar. The knights were far enough ahead that they probably didn’t hear the words of the conversation so much as wanted the thieves to be silent. However, if silence was so important, then that son of bastard just ruined it with a loud question. Not that the knights’ clanking armor didn’t alert everything in a half mile radius. 

Trapped underground. Trapped with that templar. 

Daveth was about to retort when Raviathan tapped him on the arm with the flat of his blade. After a quick flick of his eyes to the dark hall behind them, Raviathan held Daveth’s eyes. The human gave the barest nod that he understood. The thieves continued down the mud slicked ruin, the knights left wondering at the change of attitude. 

“Now!” Raviathan and Daveth twisted back, their blades striking forward. Sparks flew in the dim light, steel scratching steel, a spray of black blood, and a deep groan of pain. Taint pressed against them like a sudden burning wind, ashy and choleric. More clangs of metal rang, the sound loud in the small space, as the two thieves parried and struck at the party of genlocks. Three more appeared to join the first two, Daveth’s kill already dropping. 

“Help us,” Raviathan shouted to the stationary knights. The death rattle of the genlock sent a shiver down Raviathan’s spine. His skin felt like it wanted to jump off and crawl away. The back of his throat itched in a red burn from the oily blood in the air. Maker, how could such creatures exist? Unnatural, as if they bent the world in wrong angles. 

Raviathan spared a glance back at the knights before another assassin could take the place of the one he felled. That damned templar was slipping on the sludge that coated the stone floor as he scrambled for purchase. At least he was trying. Jory had turned a sickly pale green, struck as dumb as a statue. Useless. Raviathan glared at him for only an instant before returning to the foray. He snarled at the next monster to rush him. 

Though disgusting, these weren’t simple, stupid creatures. They had armor, weapons, wielded their blades with skill. Savage, yes, but not untrained as children fighting with sticks would be. How smart were they? Raviathan dropped to a knee, his dagger locked against the genlock’s jagged blade, pushing it to swing high while Raviathan’s sword struck deep in an unarmored spot. A sword whistled over Raviathan’s head, slicing the genlock’s neck open. 

Raviathan backed out of the melee, rising to his feet as he did so, only to bang his head against Alistair’s shield. A brief, bright blast of light blocked his vision for a second. Genlocks moving in the shadow, vague but predatory, death stalking him. Damn stupid templar! Raviathan cowered, covering his head as a tendril of magic worked to repair bruise and shock. Fighting clamored above him, beside him, all the worse for his vulnerability. 

Trapped in the cave. Trapped by the templar. 

Vision cleared, Raviathan struck a rotted boot, the genlock buckling to flail into his waiting blade. Black blood steamed on the stone, mixing with the slick mud. Alistair slipped, legs going wide, arms flailing for balance when the edge of his shield smashed down into Raviathan’s back. 

“Ow!” 

“Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean that.” 

Oh for love of the Maker! Which was the worse enemy? Raviathan grabbed the templar by the knee, pulling hard so Alistair spun sideways and landed on the remaining genlock, pinning the thing down. Raviathan leapt, his knee in Alistair’s chest, and jabbed his dagger in the startled genlock’s eye. 

Stillness descended, broken only by ragged breathing. Raviathan heaved to his feet, hearing an ‘oomph’ from the templar. The thieves exchanged hard, darkly triumphant grins. 

Shocked, Alistair stared up. “You… what was that? You could have killed me!” 

Raviathan snorted. “Looks like you’re not so dead after all.” Pity. 

Without a second look, Raviathan shouldered past Jory and continued down the corridor. Daveth followed not bothering to hide his smirk. “Very brave, Ser Knight.” 

Jory gaped before flushing. “Now see here. I have a claymore. I can’t wield it in this space.” 

“So, if it weren’t for us, you’d be completely defenseless, then? Aww, poor, brave Ser Cumference with his too big sword and too small...” 

“Stop it!” Raviathan frowned as he stalked down the crumbling hallway. It was their choice to follow or not. He heard the footsteps of the others though he didn’t acknowledge them. At least they had stopped sniping at each other for a time. These were going to be his fellows? Would the Wardens give additional training to integrate them? How did Duncan manage? 

When the corridor divided, Raviathan ordered Daveth and Alistair to explore the section that continued to dip down while he and Jory took the section that spiraled up. Jory and Daveth needed to be separated, and anything to get that templar away was a blessing. The others seemed surprised by the order, but this way the teams were balanced. 

“Duncan said he found you at a tourney?” Might as well try to make nice. If this was to be his comrade, continued ill will would not serve either of them. Besides, more allies would help distance himself from the templar. 

“Yes, indeed. In Highever. I originally hail from Redcliffe.” 

“I met Arl Eamon. Briefly. Did you not like serving him?” 

“The Arl is a noble man in every respect,” Jory said, his chin lifting. “I asked for leave in order to…”

At Raviathan’s raised hand, Jory quieted. Raviathan listened intently, watchful for any sign. After a moment he nodded that all was clear. 

“If I may ask, how did you know about the darkspawn before? I saw nothing.” 

“Thieves’ trick. It’s a method of bending the Fade to hide. Surely you’ve heard of it.” 

“Heard of, but I’ve never seen.” 

“Haven’t you been taught what to look for?” Raviathan turned back to regard the warrior. 

“Only the castle guards are trained to look for thieves. A knight doesn’t need to know such things.” 

Raviathan cocked his head in thought. A fortnight ago, shems with weapons all looked like shems with weapons—a threat to him and his people. As with rulers, he was learning there were differences, and with differences came specialized learning. “I could see their tracks forming in the mud. The trick is useful, but there are limits.” 

The hall dead ended in a crumpled mass of stone. Instead of returning, Raviathan ascended a broken staircase using both hands and feet to keep his purchase. The stairs were almost vertical after centuries of shifting, but Raviathan found them easy after so many years of climbing upon the alienage buildings. 

“Shouldn’t we wait for the others?” 

“Just looking.” Chips of stone crumbled under Raviathan’s light weight. Trapped. Stone overhead, and if it fell, they would be gone from this world. Raviathan took long breaths and fought the rising panic away. At least in the little chamber above there was a missing wall that lead to open sky. Raviathan stood at the edge, breathing in freedom, and gazed over the remains of the fortress that had long succumbed to the Wilds. 

The sun would set in a few hours. Unless the other two had found the treaties, this mission would be a wash. What had been here was picked clean long ago either by barbarians, scavengers, or darkspawn. Only broken stone remained, burying whatever treasures remained. No force in Thedas was going to make Raviathan dig through stone. Let dwarves who understood such things have a go. 

Hadn’t Duncan sensed darkspawn? Didn’t he say that all Wardens could? How had that templar not noticed the darkspawn sneaking up on them? Could templars sense magic? Raviathan had always wondered, and so had Solyn, but they never knew. Mages were supposed to be able to hide as long as they didn’t display their gifts, but what did he really know about templars? Had Alistair known the darkspawn were coming but chose not to give warning? Let the darkspawn take out the apostate for him? The others would be witnesses that it had been a sneak attack and therefore an accident. Raviathan nibbled his lip, growing cold at the idea. 

Alistair had seemed harmless enough at first, but the man had also demonstrated a cruel streak. The court jester turned rambling idiot had to be a ruse. The way Alistair had stared at him back at Ostagar… had he known then? Humans stared at him all the time, so Raviathan hadn’t thought much of it. Elves were often the subject of human curiosity. And lust. But what if the templar had known? 

Voices sounded from the hall below. Best not to let his guard down, Raviathan decided as he returned to the stairs. Survive this expedition. Talk with Duncan. Raviathan wasn’t hopeful, but perhaps something could be arranged so he wouldn’t have to be around the templar much. 

“Find the treaties?” Raviathan called. If at all possible, he would not be going back into the ruins. 

“Naw,” Daveth said. “It’s all swamp down that way. If they’re underwater, ain’t no help for it. No use swimming with eels or leeches for a rotted note.” 

“There’s a way out up here. We’ll have to go back without them.” 

Jory need a boost from below and Raviathan hauling him up in order to get his mass up the near useless steps. Raviathan made sure he kept his face neutral. Like many shems who focused only on strength, Jory was all muscled fat with no grace. Daveth and Jory helped Alistair next, then Daveth came last with a smirk at the knights’ uselessness. 

“So we’re just going to leave? The treaties.” Alistair glanced around the party, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

“Duncan said they’re a formality.” Raviathan leapt out of the room to a landing then proceeded to make his way down with a series of hops along what was left of the keep. 

“I thought you said this was a way out!” The whites around Jory’s bulging eyes were visible, even down two stories. 

“Well, obviously it is,” Raviathan said with a shrug. He let the shems grumble and Daveth laugh as they figured out their own way down. Idly, Raviathan checked around the ruins so that they could at least say they were through. Except for some overgrown lizards, there was nothing but crumbling stone. Raviathan still felt weighed down. The fog was like another oppressive ceiling, too close, clinging all around him like wet cotton, stealing his heat, suffocating. 

“Hey there,” Daveth said quietly as he caught up. Raviathan looked passed him to see the knights fumbling their way down. “You see any stones set in a circle? Be up high around here.” 

“Circle? A mark of buried treasure, trap, or Chasind sign?” 

“Eh? None of that. Just a marker of sorts.” 

Raviathan glanced at Daveth’s retreating back, but then shrugged his shoulders. Shems were odd sorts. The knights were still lumbering down, Jory’s too loud complaints muffled by the fog. Would a chest survive for two centuries out here? Raviathan checked around crumbled walls, prodded rubble piles with a boot, but didn’t take his exploration further than that. 

Now that he was away from the others, Raviathan could reach out with his senses to get a better feel of the area. He dare not extend too much with the templar about, but the moment of quiet meditation gave him some insight to the swamp. The Fade felt strange here. To be more accurate, the Veil that separated the worlds was different. The Fade was always the Fade, a chaos of abstraction and emotion, but the barrier was thinner, brittle, like wire stretched too tight and ready to snap. 

What had happened here? There was the story Daveth had shared with him. The fog was a curse that had originated from a Chasind woman who had found her sons butchered, then, in grief, plunged a blade into her heart. Such tales sounded good, but Raviathan doubted the truth of such fancies. 

Some spells could be permanent, but they needed a material object to anchor the Fade energies to this realm. A similar anchor would exist in the Fade, the spell linking the two like a bridge across the Veil. Exceptionally strong symbols needed to be used, like mirrors or fire, images that would remain powerful throughout generations and cultures or the anchor used in the Fade would weaken and die out. 

The fog here was more than a trick of weather. No matter the geographic conditions, a clear day would happen on occasion. The thinning of the Veil corroborated that magic was involved, but how this was accomplished, Raviathan could only guess. The story involved blood magic, which Raviathan thought was probably true. Given Daveth’s other stories of the Chasind, blood magic would be common practice here. 

A whoosh of wind near Raviathan’s head was followed by a thud. Jory cried out, a sound followed by the crunch of heavy armor hitting stone followed. Raviathan leaped for cover behind a wall, his heart clogging his throat. Maker’s ass! A few inches closer and he would be dead. He hadn’t even a clue there was danger near. 

“Jory! Are you injured?” Raviathan stayed low behind the scant ruins as he made his way back to where the knights had been. 

“He took a tumble,” Alistair called back. “I think he’ll be okay though.” 

“Daveth?” Raviathan flattened when another arrow thudded into the uneven rock above him. 

“I don’t see him.” 

The hilltop full of ruins a scant minute ago seemed to desert Raviathan now that he needed them. The walls were too short, too full of holes and gaps. He risked exposure running from one set to the other, arrows following his wake as he raced for shelter. Alistair and Jory stayed camped behind their wall, Jory struggling for breath. 

“Not shot?” Raviathan examined the warrior as best he could with the load of heavy armor in the way. 

“Not that I saw,” Alistair said. “No blood anyway.” 

Raviathan met Jory’s eyes. “Had the wind knocked out of you then.” 

Jory gave a nod as he continued to gulp. 

“Easy, Jory. Just work on breathing.” Raviathan didn’t turn to look at Alistair when he asked, “Can you tell where they are?” 

Alistair shook his head. “Unless the darkspawn are doing that hiding bit like earlier, but I don’t sense them.” 

“At all?”

“No.” 

Raviathan nibbled his lip. No thief could hide and fight. Their concentration would be wrecked. “Could it be a scouting party?” 

“Scouting party?”

“The King’s men. Maybe they think we’re darkspawn or Chasind.” 

“No,” Alistair said with a frown. “Not supposed to be any scouts out this way.” 

More arrows made the three cower away from the edges. 

“C-cov…” Jory coughed. “Lay-ing c-cover.” He gestured as he tried to explain. “Ad…vance.” 

“You mean they’re getting closer?” Raviathan asked as he forced his panic down. Jory nodded as he looked between the two. 

If only he could see his attackers. They had the high ground, but the area was unfamiliar. The darkspawn in the ruins underground could have been a scouting party. How many were advancing? The three of them could be easily outmaneuvered in this maze of swamp and abandoned remains. 

Raviathan grabbed Alistair’s helmet and held it half over the wall. A second later a metallic clang sounded as the helmet popped out of his hand. 

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair said, taking his helmet back. “We can’t even see them. You think they got Daveth?” 

“Haven’t heard him. He’s either staying hidden, maneuvering for a better position, shot and can’t talk, or dead. Three out of four means we shouldn’t expect help from him.” 

“Ooh, you’re an optimist,” Alistair said. 

An unknown, uncounted enemy was approaching with open hostility, and he makes jokes? Raviathan barely stopped himself from yelling at the fool templar. I’m supposed to be in my alienage, happily married, working to build a career as a healer, busy trying to add more pointed eared babies to this world. And this son of a bastard templar is making jokes. “Can you carry Jory? We need to move back.” 

“Back where? Into the ruins? I won’t be able to get him far. Not with all that heavy… armor. Hey, can’t you do that disappearing trick thingy?” Alistair waved his hands like a child who was pretending to be a mage might cast a spell. “See how many there are?” 

Thingy? “No. Can’t concentrate like this.” 

Another volley of arrows had them shrinking down. Raviathan stared at an arrow stuck quivering in the stone. His vision blurred as he tried to figure a way out of this situation. At least in the ruins they would have walls to protect them rather than these ruins to be used against them. Even if he and the idiot could get back to the ruins without getting shot, they couldn’t haul Jory there. Can’t leave Jory, but he was like a lead weight pulling Raviathan underwater. Raviathan was already floundering. 

The arrow stilled, pulling Raviathan’s focus—dark green feathers for fletching, runes carved in the deep mahogany of the straight shaft. Eyes going wide, Raviathan whipped off his backpack and started rummaging through it. Alistair watched the elf flip madly through a ragged book then play a little song on a wooden pipe. 

“What is that?” Alistair asked, annoyed. 

Raviathan ignored him as he shifted back and forth between pages then played three more short tunes. To the knights’ astonishment, they heard the faint sound of notes returning from beyond the ruins. The elf kept his ear cocked, listening, his breath stilled. 

After a moment, bird song played soft in the muffling mist. Grinning, Raviathan flipped through the pages, trilling out more notes. 

“You know what’s going on?” Alistair asked. 

“Quiet.” Raviathan sat on his heels, the little book propped on his backpack as he and their attackers piped at each other. Finally, Raviathan pulled the arrow out of the chipped wall and waved it, fletching high, over the wall. “I think we’re safe.” 

“What happened?” Alistair glanced between Raviathan and Jory. “What did you do?” 

Raviathan ignored him as he settled his equipment back into place. 

“Well?” 

A wildling, tall and long limbed, stepped out from the other side the ruins. The man’s hair hung in tangled ropes like thick twine down his back and gathered into a loose knot. Dark green paint under his eyes and along his jaw made him look more animal than man. Dirt streaked his face, the bright white of his eyes practically glowing like an elf’s from the contrast. Foxtails swayed with his movements. Despite the cold, the wildling’s thighs and upper arms were bare, showing off patterns made of scars and ink. 

Calm, Raviathan approached cautiously with his hand out in greeting. They clasped at the wrists, the wildling giving him a nod before retreating a few steps. 

“Chasind,” Alistair whispered, hunkering down next to Jory. 

“Aye.” The wildling’s savage gaze fell on the two knights before returning to the elf. The tenor of his voice rasped low, more familiar to whispers or battle cries rather than speech. He whispered now, as if his voice was part of the indistinct fog. “The black of under is boiling from the deep earth. Warnings we had been given, though some stay. Fools they be.” 

“We’re here to try to stop the darkspawn’s progress north,” Raviathan said. “The King’s Army and Grey Wardens together.” 

“Don’t trust him!” Alistair was crouched protectively over Jory, his attention focused on the wildling. “They’re moving into position as we speak.” 

Raviathan’s jaw clenched. Bloody moron was going to ruin everything. Typical templar—never took time to understand people or situations. Just kill it, destroy it, then turned their backs to the damage they wrought, the broken people left in their wake. 

The wildling’s eyes narrowed, his already sharp focus turning dangerous. He slid like a snake, sinewy and hypnotic, deceptively relaxed but ready to strike. “What is the true of your means?” 

Before the wildling could continue, Raviathan spread both hands out to show peaceful intentions. “He spoke out of turn. Our truce holds.” 

“Truce?” Alistair kept his defensive stance over Jory, his shield and a dagger ready. 

Raviathan kept his gaze steady on the wild man. “On my honor.”

After a moment’s consideration of the northmen, the wildling regarded only Raviathan as if he alone were worthy of conversation. “You are not of your elfkin. Not here for that fire god’s words?” The wildling was always in motion, always looking about, listening, shifting, but not in a way that drew extra attention. He was like a tree swaying in a breeze, part of the movement of the swamp. “Not to war on us?”

“No. Our only duty is to stop the darkspawn. That is all.” Raviathan watched him, fascinated by the otherworldliness of this human. This human respected elves, an oddity in itself. 

A grunt from the wildling. “Faith then. Leave, elf of the far tribe. The northmen know not the black of under. The false sun king will fall in pride. This is known.”

“Known? Known by whom?” 

A rumble issued from the wildling’s throat. “The Old Ones see signs. Hunters see the remains. The black of under brings plague. Brings madness. No way back.” 

“Have you seen the horde? Do you know how many there are? Where they’re coming from?” 

“Know their number? Count the shadows at night. Even the witch makes plans.” 

“I’ve heard tales about new darkspawn. Very large.” 

“Aye. Horns thick as trees. Move as if the hills took legs upon them. More. Our Seer speaks of sorcery. Breaking nature, the black of under magics. 

Raviathan opened his mouth to reply, but a low whistle from the swamp cut him off. The wildling whistled back using the same small flute Raviathan had. The wildling eyed him, a brow raised. “Safe passage to be?” 

“Yes. The King’s scouting parties are to the south and west.” 

“A fairness then.” 

Raviathan gave him a nod. 

“Word with you.” The wildling stilled for the first time. “Follow the elfkin. Find passage with the witch. Come with us. But leave.” 

“I cannot,” Raviathan said. “I have been called to fight.” 

The wildling approached, slow and skittish as a curious deer. Reaching out slowly, he felt a lock of Raviathan’s hair, pulled it gently between his fingers. Raviathan stared, wide eyed, but did not dare break their tentative truce. “Wolf of Beyond watch your path.” 

A moment later, the wildling had disappeared into the mist. The only mark that he had been there was a small sack he left behind. Raviathan added the sack to his equipment without letting the others know. There would be time to examine its contents later. 

Behind him, Raviathan heard Alistair helping Jory to his feet. For a moment he wondered if he should have it out with the templar. Though he played the clown, that man was a cold blooded killer, to be sure. Rash, arrogant, and just as chilly as the winter wind. Would any attempt at reasoning help? No, Raviathan decided. Can’t turn a tainted heart. 

Where did that leave him though, Raviathan wondered. Would there be a way to avoid the templar? There weren’t enough Wardens that he could keep his distance forever. Raviathan sighed. He’d have to hope Duncan would understand and have a solution. Why would Duncan recruit this idiot anyway? Surely there were better warriors, smarter warriors at the very least. Raviathan rubbed his forehead to ease the coming headache. 

Why this templar!? 

With a force of will Raviathan pushed down his flash of temper. His building irritation and exhaustion would make him do or say something he would regret if he wasn’t careful. Now was not the time. Later, when he was with Duncan, they could talk. This situation would be solved. Raviathan took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, easing the tension from his mind. Be calm. Be patient. A solution would come. 

“I am Gazarath!” The words echoed eerily through the mist from beyond the ruins, carried over water and vibrating off cliffs and half walls. 

At a frightened yell that sounded suspiciously like Daveth, Alistair and Raviathan ran through the ruins toward the sound. Jory plodded along, his heavy white puffs of air bellowing out before him. 

Breaking free of the crumbling walls, they saw Daveth running down a slope with a shade following after. The thief’s legs pumped high, his momentum carrying him dangerously fast along the stone strewn hill. A long, spindly fingered claw swiped at his back, swishing through air. 

What new shit was this? 

“Get moving!” Raviathan yelled at Alistair, trying to get the blighted templar in motion. Startled out of his surprise, Alistair rushed along the hilltop after the thief. Jory huffed afterwards, which impressed Raviathan considering the knight had the breath knocked out of him. 

After two arrows missed their mark, Raviathan slung his bow and headed down the hill to head off the shade. He couldn’t turn his back on any of these shems for a even minute. What mischief had Daveth got himself into? A shade no less. Raviathan heart beat for more than the impending fight. All the years his aunt had spoken of creatures from the Fade, demons and spirits, shades of shadow and ash, and he was finally seeing one for himself. Such a pity the shade was hostile. Raviathan would have gladly watched the shade attack the templar for a few minutes… for academic purposes of study, of course. 

“Here!” Daveth turned at the sound of Raviathan’s voice. He slipped in the wet grass but hurried toward the path towards Raviathan. 

Impossibly thin arms whipped towards Raviathan’s face, taloned fingers slashing a finger’s breadth away from his face. “Maker!” 

Raviathan raised his sword in a flash of steel, instinct and muscle memory guiding his arm. The shade advanced as smooth as wind over the rock strewn hillside. Raviathan backpedaled under the creature’s onslaught, his blades working fast to keep the shade from shredding his face. Fire of Andraste! 

Beneath the instinct for survival, Raviathan was aware of his brain taking in every detail of the shade, committing these moments to memory. Fascination overrode any fear he felt. The shade trailed wisps of shadow, like rags that disappeared as if made of ash. A mouth of sorts, a hole with sharp cat’s teeth framed in rings, reached for prey. The teeth flexed, strained to reach him. It’s eye…

Hitting a stone, Raviathan stumbled back. He tucked his head to roll with his fall. Leather armor dulled a rock that hammered his shoulder blade. Raviathan twisted, somersaulting back to his feet, his blades ready. A howl issued from the shade, from a voice that was never supposed to exist on this side of the Veil. It rose up, screaming to the fog coated sky. Raviathan saw Alistair’s blade poking through the shade’s twisted chest. Taking the moment of vulnerability, Raviathan thrust both his blades forward, deep into the sentient shadow. 

The shade warbled, and odd scream as its essence was destroyed from two realms, the sound echoing back and forth across the Veil. Raviathan wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard, “At last, my wish granted.” Shadows fragmented like ash, floated away before fading into mist. 

Jaw set, Raviathan turned to Daveth. The thief backed away from the elf’s glare. “What?” 

“Explain yourself,” Raviathan demanded. His weapons were still out, gripped so tight they wavered. 

“Ah, well, there’s this story, see. Legend, really. We’d all heard it growing up, but I never actually thought to find…”

“Where were you?” Raviathan had to hide his own surprise at the vehemence of his shout. The others all drew back a step. “When we were attacked by Chasind. Where were you?” 

“Chasind?” Daveth scanned the little valley, though there was little to see beyond mist slicked grass and stone remnants. “Here? They’ve come this far north?” 

“Don’t tell me you just took off after we left the ruins.” 

“Ah, well. Had to um, rain on a lizard, then, I spied the stone circle. Honest, I didn’t think you all would get in trouble so quick.” 

Raviathan turned on his heel before he said something he’d regret. Like his fellow elves before him, he’d have to learn to swallow his natural responses in order to get along with shems. It hurt though. He’d hidden parts of himself, his magic from his friends and family, his mother’s training from the alienage, but he hadn’t had to smother so much of his genuine self behind a stoic mask before. Adaia trained him well, and he could relax his face so his feelings didn’t show, but it was like killing part of himself. 

He sat on a rock facing away from the three and sipped at his waterskin. After some loud popping from his flexing neck, Raviathan started concentrating on his breathing, forcing himself to relax. He could hear the others behind him, their voices muffled from the fog, but he tuned them out. They all needed a moment to regain their equilibrium. Raviathan let his breath out on a slow exhale. He lived among shems now. He would adapt. 

While he meditated, he thought of the shade. Though Solyn had tried to describe Fade spirits to him, he didn’t understand until now.

The shade’s eye, one singular eye to show its soul, was like looking through the Veil, directly into the Fade. It’s soul glared out a chaos of empty, cold light. No fire, not even the faded touch of a winter moon, could create a light so devoid of life. A soul light of the dead, light that could echo only the hollow, lonely void when life had slipped away. Had it been a demon? An ancient spirit lost? Forever stuck in between worlds, the shade had been bound by rules of flux and fixed realities, two incompatible existences. 

This was the division. The shade thought, acted, attacked, reacted, had a soul, but there was no fire, no life to the creature. The darkspawn had no soul even as they acted, but there was an essential difference between the soul dead spirits of the Fade and the blighted monsters that slithered forth like a plague made flesh. 

Raviathan had always thought the Fade spirits were living. If they could think, have feelings, understand concepts and form identities, how were they different from what made a soul living? He had wondered at the incompatibility of hunger demons when the Maker himself was supposed to create his new children with an unending hunger to create. Seeing the shade, Raviathan understood his aunt’s lectures. His very soul connection to the Fade had taught him the essence of creation. 

His first magic was a healing fire, a glorious paradox that his aunt had never seen the like before. Fire destroyed as it renewed. More than a heat source against the cold or light to fight back the dark, fire was creation in its own right. Fire cleared stagnant growth away so that new life had a chance to grow. Ashes became nutrients. On a grander scale, fire moved the earth, tilled tired soil with volcanic pressure, pushed mountains to their groaning heights. Fire cleaned. In fire, creation started with destruction. 

This boggy swamp was another side of that creation magic. Raviathan thought of the fox corpse he had seen on the trail down to the Wilds, how it had disintegrated but turned into fuel for maggots and mushrooms. True, the swamp was renewing life in a pattern Raviathan found repugnant, but the cycle turned here nevertheless. Water’s own slow power, destruction that led to creation. 

The power of creation in living souls was in ideas, and from thought, to transform the world they lived in, not just rearrange it. The power of creation did not exist in the souls beyond the Veil. The spirits beyond the Veil could not transform in any meaningful way. They could latch onto concepts to form their identity, but those concepts were created by the Maker or His children on this side of the Veil. Every thought a demon ever had was created by a living soul’s malice, a living soul’s greed. The spirits became these ideas, but they could not originate them. 

Now that he was centered, Raviathan stood, stretched, and considered what to do next. They had a few hours before sunset. By all accounts the battle would start after dark, but there was no reason to chance being caught out when the battle started. They still had the initiation ritual as well. How long would that take? Should they look for the treaties again? Nibbling his lip, Raviathan decided that with the treaties being a mere formability, and the battle was not a mere formality, they had best return. 

A woman’s ringing laughter ended his reflections. 

“Chasind,” Daveth whispered. The man had gone pale, his unshaven scruff stark black against his paled skin. 

The woman crouched on a bolder above them. The feather decorations and stylized tatters she wore gave her the appearance of a raven watching prey. She was beautiful in her own way. Exotic yellow eyes and a full mouth like a plump, purple rose bud added to the inquisitive raptor persona. She grinned at Daveth, her eyes too reminiscent of a snake’s cold observation for any to relax. “Worried the barbarian hordes will swoop upon you?” 

“Yes,” Alistair drawled, hand on hilt. “Swooping is bad.” 

“Witch of the Wilds, she is,” Daveth continued to ramble. “She’ll skin us alive then boil our eyes for soup.” 

“You there, elf,” the woman called. Her tattered clothes and crouched position disguised much of her frame, but she was slight for a human. Despite the cold, her thin arms remained exposed much like the Chasind they had seen earlier. “You’re not like these others. What do you think?”

“Don’t listen to her,” Alistair warned. “They’ve probably been gathering us together. Now they have the high ground.” 

Raviathan raised an eyebrow. Interesting how paranoid the templar was. Always seeing danger in the shadows. “And why not take us out when we were separated and Jory incapacitated?” 

“I don’t know.” Exasperation made Alistair’s voice high. “But don’t you think her sudden appearance is just a little suspicious?” 

“Sudden?” The woman cocked her head like a raven. “I was here for the world to see had you sense enough to look.” 

“You… you’re just some kind of sneaky… witch-thief!”

Witch-thief? Raviathan wanted to tell the shems to go wait by the ruins while the adults talked. “We’re looking for treaties left in the ruins.” 

Her laughter was rich without being mocking, more amused. “Have you not noticed you are in the ruins no longer?” 

She was strange to be sure, but Raviathan gave her an easy smile. Not only was she familiar with this place, she was willing to talk. “A spirit was attempting to get a kiss from my comrade here.” 

“Indeed. ‘Twas quite the show.” Mischief animated her face. 

“Do you have the treaties,” Alistair demanded. 

Tension rose as the woman lost her smile. Raviathan glared at the templar. The Maker’s punishment was cruel to saddle him with this idiot shem. 

“I do not have your treaties.” Raviathan’s small hope fell at her words, but he hadn’t expected much from the woman. 

“Stole them,” Alistair muttered. 

Her chin rose as she looked down at Alistair. “Stolen? From a ruin long ago claimed by this forest?” 

Alistair glanced around at his fellows. “Was it just me, or did she not deny being a witch-thief?” 

Restraining a sigh, Raviathan started back to Ostagar. “Come on. Let’s get back before sunset.” 

“But… what about…” Alistair glanced between him and the woman. 

“Do you have nothing better to do than bait her?” Maker! You’d think the templar had never seen a woman before. He was like a boy poking a lizard with a stick. 

“To begin, my name is Morrigan. And while I do not have these treaties of yours, I know who does.” 

That brought the party up short. “She’s lying,” Alistair said.

“A trap.” Daveth shrunk behind Jory. 

“Who has the treaties?” Raviathan asked. 

“My mother.”

“Your… mother?” Alistair’s face puckered at the incomprehensible idea. 

“Yes. Did you think I was spawned from rock and snake?” 

Raviathan punched Alistair in the shoulder before the templar could say anything else. “We need the treaties and soon. Would you help us?” 

The woman raised an eyebrow, a slight smile playing about her lips. “Such things may be possible.” 

 

~o~O~o~

 

The sun touched the far horizon lighting up the mist in scarlet. Nerves started to worry at Raviathan. How far away was Ostagar by now? Would they make it in time for the ritual? Before the battle? 

If Daveth hadn’t already emptied his bladder, Raviathan was sure the shem would have a wet spot. He wondered about the shem. The man could face darkspawn without hesitation, but the Chasind and witches put him off his balance. Raviathan supposed everyone had their fears. To the man’s credit, he stayed with the party even though he was terrified. 

Shadows bent and swayed in the low light, the movement made eerie by the still air. A decrepit hut stood on thin stilts over a silent pool. The stagnant water reflected the last of the sun, rippling as the hut swayed and creaked. The stilts looked as fragile as chicken legs. Given the uneven building and odd placement of additional stories, Raviathan thought the hut would fit well in an alienage. 

“Hello, mother. These are the Grey Wardens you wanted.” At the statement Daveth moaned like a dying thing. Morrigan gave him a slight smile as satisfied as a cat with a trapped mouse. “And this is Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds.” 

The crone guffawed, a creaky sound like tree limbs breaking in a storm. “Witch of the Wilds? Has she been telling stories? Did you know she likes to dance naked under the light of the full moon?” 

Pink flushed Morrigan’s cheeks, as did Alistair and Jory. Daveth seemed too far gone for to do anything but clutch his knife as if it could protect him as a shield. Raviathan wondered at the woman, why she would be so cruel to her daughter. This whole thing had apparently been planned. Hadn’t Morrigan done as she was told? Or was it outing Flemeth as a witch? That the two wielded magic was as obvious as red spots covering a shem boy’s face. Only an idiot would be surprised. 

“I knew it!” Alistair glared at Morrigan. “You are a sneaky witch-thief.” 

Maker help me. “Morrigan said you had the treaties we need?” 

In the low light of the swamp, Flemeth’s eyes gleamed, her golden irises as inhuman as elven eyes. Though she wore rags, her hair hanging in dirty grey clumps, there was strength to the woman. Half her teeth had gone black. “Perhaps.” Her voice was warm and rough as whiskey as she drew out the word. 

“So you do have them.” Alistair stepped forward, his chest out for authority. “Those are Grey Warden property. You’ve no right to steal them.” 

“Steal them?” Flemeth’s head shook, a condition that sometime afflicted the elderly and could be made worse by emotion. “What a silly boy you are. I was protecting them. Do you really think they would have survived all this time on their own? That protection spell wore off long ago.” 

“She’s got the treaties,” Jory said. “Let’s take them and go. We waste time here.” 

Flemeth patted Alistair’s cheek none too gently. Raviathan could finally see the resemblance between the two women. They looked nothing alike, but they both had the cold smile of a hunting moray eel. Why did this bloody stupid shem keep poking at them? Granted he was a templar, but these women were in their element. The four of them might have a chance if they could count on Daveth, though he would probably run at the first chance, but why tempt what would be a painful and unnecessary fight? Templars: all viciousness and no sense. 

Alistair glanced between Flemeth and Raviathan. “You don’t believe her, do you?” 

As much as Raviathan loathed to agree with the templar, he was right that this was set up. Not a trap to harm them, but the templar’s instincts hadn’t been completely wrong. Raviathan reminded himself to be cautious. Ignoring the threat of this shem by thinking him an idiot was a mistake. 

The crone smiled as she walked forward, her unwavering focus on Raviathan. “And what do you believe, Warden to be?”

Addled witch or not, they had to hurry back. The eerie light in the witch’s predatory eyes kept Raviathan from retorting with a smart remark. They studied each other, and he was sure she knew he was a fellow apostate. How she knew, he couldn’t tell. Her power was obvious, her otherness as much a part of her as the mist was to the Korcari Wilds. The witch was watching him closely, so he knew his answer would be important to her. He weighed his words before speaking. “Belief is not the certainty of knowledge. Belief can be powerful, and it can be dangerous. Belief is the gap between what we understand and what exists without understanding, and yet belief is what guides our actions.” 

A smile spread across the woman’s face, as indulgent as a satiated cat watching a mouse scurry across her path. She chuckled. “Will that be your calling then? Choices, choices, choices we make. So many paths we have in our youth. Go down this one or that and everything turns narrow, winding, and certain. Freedom becomes such a tricky question, does it not? You did not choose and easy path, dear one. Let us hope you survive long enough to make something of it.”


	31. Becoming Grey

Even though it had stood for nearly a millennium, Ostagar was still the most impressive structure Raviathan had ever been in. The ruined old temple was crumbling at the edges, but the main structure was still strong as the rock it was build on. The wall he leaned on now was the silent witness of battles and plots lost in the echoes of time. Was the mar on stone from a blade swung during a last stand, the crash of a wayward cart, a lingering scar from magic gone astray? 

His fantasies were ended by a renewed pounding in his head. The incessant bickering of the shems or a lack of sleep or hunger or stress from the battle or the coming storm or the simple fact that he missed his alienage; any of these, or all of them, could be the cause of the incessant thumping of his skull. Now that he had seen the Wardens-to-be in action, Raviathan weighed the two men. 

Although Daveth had panicked at the sight of the Chasind, Raviathan opined Jory was the greater coward. Jory hadn’t been raised with fear of the wildlings or witches. Between the two of them, Daveth fared better with the darkspawn, and that was the enemy they were called to fight. Jory hadn't been raised with the fear of wildlings or witches, so perhaps he hadn't seen the danger of the two apostates and only considered them weak old women.

Flemeth bothered Raviathan in a way he found hard to pinpoint. He would lay sovereigns to straw the woman wielded extremely powerful magic. The question that nagged at him was whether she was human or something else. Raviathan had no experience with an abomination, only his aunt’s stories, so he couldn’t be certain. She had seemed addled, but not out of control. However, there wasn’t a single human who had eyes like that by birth. Flemeth was a mystery that would do him little good to contemplate. Now that Duncan knew about Raviathan’s hidden magic, there might be some opportunity to study in the future. Get some books perhaps. 

“Why are you bellyaching now?” Daveth glared at Jory. “Didn’t you want to be a Warden? I hear over and over about your ruddy tourney.” 

“I have a wife is in Highever with a child on the way. If they had warned me… It just doesn’t seem fair.” 

Raviathan had sympathy for the Jory’s desire to protect his wife and unborn child. Neither he or Duncan had told him about Highever. As a very pregnant woman, she might have been spared the rape common of soldiers who had battle lust upon them, but soldiers did strange things. Raviathan had the bitter memories of a purge and what humans could do when they were freed from responsibility. If Jory found out about Highever, which would happen soon enough, would he desert? Raviathan guessed that worry was Duncan’s motivation for silence. It was a calculated choice and cruel. Would Jory respect a man who would use him so? 

“Warned you how? That you would fight darkspawn? Maker’s arse, I didn’t think you were that dim.” 

“More insults, is it?” Jory said, lifting his chin. The lines of his nose deepened in disgust. “You have no idea. Have you ever loved anyone? Has anyone even cared about you? Or were you a shame to your family from the beginning? No wonder you cannot conceive of what it means to protect those you love.” 

That statement hit Raviathan like a slap. With his head bowed, long bangs over his eyes, he hoped the others would not notice his flinch. Since his flight from Denerim, he kept his mind far from the people he left behind. Damn Jory for returning his thoughts. How was Nesiara? Had she left yet? Would she be opening a shop with Valora? Would she already be gone from Denerim, looking for a new match? There was that boy from Dragon’s Peak. Maybe Ness’s parents were making that other match for her. Maybe his own father or Valendrian were helping her. Raviathan hoped her new husband would be a good man. With her necklace she could name any match she wanted. 

Though he had lost faith with the Chant, he still prayed to the Maker. Anything for her. Maker, let my Ness be happy. Give her security and a proper husband who will cherish and care for her as she should be cared for. She is a good woman, Maker. It was fitting to end our marriage. I understand that. Maker, please watch over her. Let her have the match she deserved in the first place. 

Guilt twisted his stomach again at the thought of Shianni. Maker, watch over Shianni. Let her heal and be whole. Keep her protected as I could not. Red on white flashed in his mind, and Raviathan violently pushed the image out of his mind. His heart thudded in his chest like the death throes of a dying animal. 

Would his words be heard? He prayed now because there was nothing else he could do. If it did nothing, then so be it. It didn’t hurt or waste his energy to try. Maybe the Maker would hear him, maybe not. He wasn’t sure the Maker heard anything anymore, but that hadn’t stopped anyone from praying. It struck him as enormously petty for the Maker to turn His back on His creation. Anger he could understand, but this kind of rejection, of letting good people be hurt and damaged when they did nothing to deserve it, letting so much injustice run rampant in the world, what kind of god allowed that? The Maker was probably so distant that it didn’t make a difference whether His creation followed him or not. There was a catch in his thoughts though. He was praying to a god he had little faith in. Why should the Maker ever listen to him when he didn’t listen to men and women much more faithful, more devout, and especially more pure. What was his voice when compared to them? 

Pure he was not. There were dozens upon dozens of elves he left back at home who could attest that. He had made his enemies, often by stealing the affections of the girls they sought, but there were others who just always seemed to take a dislike to him. While the time the girls he had entertained had been pleasant on both sides, there were often hurt feelings when it was clear he did not have more than a passing interest. How painful that must have been for them had only recently occurred to him. There were the more obvious mistakes that had really hurt people, the ones that continued to haunt him, but the casual ones were still cruel. He had made their hearts darker, more bitter. He was sure that most would get over it and recognize him for the idiot he was, at least he hoped they would, but there were a few that would really hurt for years. 

Another elf, dead eyes staring at the ceiling as her body was violated, hovered in his mind. The last time those eyes were turned to him, they were bitter with rejection. Just because the damage he had wrought was unintentional didn’t make it any less. He never wanted to be the instigator of suffering. Vaughan knew he was hurting people and didn’t care. At the memory Raviathan wanted to kill him all over again. Rage would flare, and he could feel the harsh beating of his heart every time he thought of the bastard. 

Following that was an ever present guilt that wormed in his mind as Raviathan thought about the damage he had caused his fellow elves, but that was ended. Some were sorry to see him go, but there were others glad that the trouble maker was finally out of their lives. Those elves had made him feel bitter at first, a rejection all to close to what Nola felt. Now that he was away from the alienage, all the way on the other side of the country, he was ready to admit that they had been right. For the damage he had caused the alienage, he should have been exiled years ago. 

“And what would you give to see that pretty wife of yours safe?” Daveth shot back. “Run from the horde here? Strap a board to your back doesn’t give you a spine.” 

“Ha! That’s a funny considering how yellow you turned around wildlings. You talk of desertion to me?” 

That damn templar just stood there and watched them fight. Damn all these loud shems. Raviathan wanted either quiet to contemplate or be done with this and find a meal and a willing woman. He didn’t move, save a flicker of his eyes to glare at the shems through his bangs. “Every man fears,” Raviathan said, his voice quiet yet catching their attention. “Daveth continued through his fear.” 

That gave them pause for a moment. The moment was all too short for Raviathan’s tastes. Jory’s thin lips grew thinner. “Why am I the coward here? Both of you hesitated at the darkspawn or the wildlings. I did neither.” 

“Your cowardice or courage is not the question,” Raviathan said in the same calm voice. “Your loyalties seem rather divided at the moment.” Why hadn’t Duncan told Jory that his life with his family was over? What was it about this final ritual that made being a Grey Warden so permanent? There were other knight orders that held loyalty as a core principle, yet they were allowed families. Raviathan had read about them on the journey here. Why were the Wardens different? 

Red blotches mottled Jory’s face. “I’m not allowed to worry for my wife and child during a Blight?” 

Emotions Raviathan couldn’t name boiled in him. How he hated Jory constantly going on about his wife and child, wife and child, wife and child. To the Abyss with your wife and child! You aren’t allowed that happiness any more than me, you great bloody idiot. Neither of us have wives and never will again. You will never find comfort with her, see her soft in sleep in the morning, make her laugh, feel her warmth, see her hold her child. The rest of our lives we can only hope for a few lost hours of pleasure with random women. Your wife and child may already be gone from this world. 

Raviathan closed his eyes. With a supreme effort, he reined his temper back in. What Jory would do when he found out about Howe’s takeover of Highever? Mostly likely he would desert the instant he had a chance. Raviathan said, “The darkspawn threaten everyone.” 

“See that,” said Daveth with vindication. “Maybe you’ll die. Maybe we’ll all die. If no one stops the Blight, we’ll all die for sure.” 

Jory paced, his temper close to breaking. “Why all these secrets?”

“The Wardens do what they must.” Raviathan closed his eyes to rest. Please, for love of the Maker, let these shems be silent. 

Ness. Please be safe. 

Red on white. 

Fire. 

Never was Raviathan more grateful for a break from his intrusive thoughts as when Duncan walked up carrying a large silver goblet. “At last we come to the Joining. The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. Only with great sacrifice do we have any hope against the darkspawn. The three of you have been tested, have fought as brothers in arms. It is time for you to Join, to be brothers in blood, to take your place in a long line of men and women who gave their lives before you. From the first, Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood thus mastering the taint set upon the world.” 

Raviathan couldn’t take his eyes away from the goblet filled with black liquid. Oh Maker no. He isn’t telling us we have to… though he had suspected… but it was too repellent. 

Jory stuttered, his eyes showing too much white, “W-we’re going to d-drink the blood of those…those creatures?” For once, Raviathan was in agreement. 

Duncan continued unperturbed by Jory’s fear, his voice stern. There would be no argument. “As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you.” Alistair and Duncan had both done that? Duncan had the mettle of a man who would do what was necessary, but Alistair? “This is the source of our power and the only possibility for victory.”

Alistair piped up, “Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the Archdemon.” 

Those words echoed, ‘survive the Joining.’ A quick glance at Daveth and Jory showed both men had caught the implications of those words. Daveth’s tongue flicked out to lick his lips, a tremor starting in his hands. Jory tuned a sickly shade and looked ready to empty his stomach. 

Raviathan’s mind whirled in fragmented thoughts. Duncan had said often, Grey Wardens do what they must. He had just said that. Drink darkspawn blood? Raviathan had accepted the conscription to forgo torture and a hanging. Was it worth it? With the Grey Wardens he would be free from templars. The other Wardens had survived. Alistair and Duncan had not turned into monsters. Raviathan had already forfeited his life when he went after Vaughan. Was this any different? A delayed hanging? 

Duncan watched all their reactions with calm resolve. So this was the secret he had kept. Raviathan saw sorrow in the old warrior, but that wouldn’t stop Duncan from doing what he thought necessary. Can I do this? Raviathan had put his life in Duncan’s hands since Denerim. Duncan was his friend and mentor. He couldn’t betray the old warrior. 

Duncan’s solemn voice filled Raviathan’s ears as the ancient ceremony continued. “We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the First. Alistair, if you would.” 

Alistair bent his head to intone the sacred words, “Join us brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us in the duty that cannot be forsworn. And if you should perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day, we shall join you.” The words burned into Raviathan’s mind. His mother had almost done this. Had she made a different choice, these words would have been hers. 

Darkspawn blood. Could he do it? Run? Duncan turned then, handing the chalice to the first initiate. “Daveth. Step forward.” 

The thief, for all his fear of witches and the cautious sneaking about, took the chalice without hesitation. He looked into the potion’s depths for a second before putting the chalice to his lips to drink. He handed the chalice back to Duncan with a grimace but otherwise seemed fine. Not so bad. Raviathan felt a sense of relief. It was disgusting, but he could do that. 

A second later Daveth staggered, grasping his head in pain. A choked gurgle tore from his throat. It sounded like he had swallowed his own tongue as he tried to scream. His balance gone, Daveth swayed then jerked up suddenly. His eyes had rolled back leaving only blind white orbs that glowed in the darkened temple ruin. 

Jory backed away, “Maker’s breath!” Raviathan knew Jory would go for his sword rather than take the potion. The knight would run into the night if he could. 

“I am sorry, Daveth,” Duncan said though the man was already too far gone. Daveth convulsed, clutching at his throat as he fell. Even his scream was taken away as a guttural hiss replaced it. The man fell to his knees then was dead. His body collapsed with a few twitches before it stilled. Without any hesitation, without so much as a pause, Duncan turned to the next candidate. “Step forward, Jory.” 

The warrior reached for his sword sputtering, “No. My wife. A child.” 

“There is no turning back.” The stern resolution in Duncan’s face would take no excuse. Raviathan had never been afraid of Duncan, but he was then. He watched frozen in horror. Would Duncan turn on him as well? Duncan’s words came back, the Grey Wardens do what they must. 

“Had I known!” Jory cried in panic. “No! You ask too much.” He backed away with his sword before him. “There is no glory in this!” 

Duncan’s knife was out. Jory’s first swing came in high, but Duncan deflected it. Duncan parried Jory’s second attack swinging the warrior’s blade wide. Before Jory could muster a defense, Duncan’s curved blade sliced deep into the warrior’s belly. A disconnected part of Raviathan’s mind thought, angled up to puncture his lungs. He’ll be dead soon. Blood spurted out as Jory gave a last wet cry. His eyes went wide in pain. “I am sorry,” said Duncan as he held Jory’s dying body. The blade exited, and Duncan stepped away as Jory’s life spilled out and he fell. 

The Grey Wardens do what they must, echoed in Raviathan’s dazed mind. Duncan continued, “Rav. It is your turn.” 

Only an hour ago Raviathan had been tracing about the Wilds with these two men. They weren’t strangers. They didn’t do anything to deserve their deaths. 

Raviathan hadn’t even realized he stepped back. Duncan’s large dark form loomed over him with the shining silver chalice in hand. More bloody death! His kin had been killed, burned or cut down, and for no reason. He was far past the point of saying life isn’t fair, but the trivial nature of life, how hard it was to bring a living thing into this world, the time and effort it took to raise a child, all of the experiences, love and pain, and in the end, it meant nothing. It shouldn’t be this way. Life shouldn’t be trivial. 

Duncan pressed hand to Raviathan’s cheek. When Raviathan looked up, he wasn’t sure if he should feel betrayed or not. The sorrow from before was back in his mentor’s face, but it did not dim the human’s resolve. “Rav,” he said softly. “The Blight has to be stopped. This is the only way. If not this, then thousands will die.” 

Raviathan took the chalice offered to him with numb fingers. Life wasn’t trivial. 

“This is how it must be.” Duncan lowered his hand. “For the greater good.” 

Here it is. The silver chalice that held darkspawn blood. Perhaps his life. He stared at the contents, black as sin. Drink this? The choice was now more real than ever. It never had been a choice though. The minute Duncan saw him in the alienage, his choice was gone. 

The Grey Wardens do what they must. 

His marriage had been over then, before Vaughan had come. Dreams of what his life could have been, the path he could have taken, it was all dreams. 

The Grey Wardens do what they must.

Only his mother had a choice. She had chosen a quiet life in the alienage over becoming a Grey Warden. The last time he saw her alive, she had been lying in the muddy street, gutted and bleeding out. The pain he had felt, not knowing how to heal her, unable to protect her, had been a wound he never forgot. But even as the light left her mermaid eyes, she had smiled at him. ‘You were worth it, my son.’ That had been her choice.

He drank. 

It tasted of burning tar and acidic bile. He could feel it crawling like a living thing down his throat. It was in him. He had thought himself impure for his actions back at the alienage, the careless use of his body. How foolish he had been. How young and naïve. The taint crawled like a rat scrabbling down his throat into his body. Like a panicked rabbit it burrowed with claws ripping, tearing his vulnerable flesh into bloody ribbons. Dimly he heard Duncan’s voice from far away, “From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden.” 

He would have cried for the loss of his innocence when the ruined temple disappeared before him. Duncan and Alistair were gone. 

~o~O~o~

The sky was dark and tinged with a sickly green of the Fade. Below him the ground was seething, squirming as if it were made of black maggots. He could hear the wet sucking of thousands of tiny mouths biting his naked feet. Every step squished the writhing things, their blood like acid stinging his open wounds. They crawled up his legs, falling and climbing higher, stripping his flesh on the way. The sight made him want to retch. 

Growls and hisses were close, hiding just behind the gloom and shadows. Moving, darting, just out of sight. The shrieks. They were waiting for him. An army watching him, planning. 

Dark clouds boiled overhead, spreading like a shroud over him, taking the little light left. He was surrounded. He could feel them coming at him from the corner of his eyes, could feel them from behind, but every way he turned was only darkness and shifting shadow. His back itched with the weight of their eyes waiting for him, ready to pounce. He was outnumbered. Too many, too strong. It would take so little to destroy him.

There was no Maker here. There was no one to call out to for help. No prayers, no light. They truly had been forsaken to have their own sin lay waste to what was left in the world. 

Despair gripped him in an invisible hand. He couldn’t fight this. Sin was eating him alive. 

He was alone, naked and shivering, utterly forgotten.

No escape. No hope. Alone. Weak. Helpless. 

Without warning a scream slammed through him. He felt like glass that would shatter. His bones vibrated with the force. All he knew was pain, pain so heavy it forced out all thoughts other than blinding, agonizing pain. He wanted to cry but could not. Not allowed to scream. 

A long serpentine neck rose before him. A dragon? No dragon ever looked like that. The sin he had drunk was given form in the monster before him. The sin of the world was in him now. No abstract concepts or petty notions of right and wrong. Sin was real, a physical thing. It looked at him, straight into him. It was inside him and there before him at once. It hated him and called to him. The tainted god, and there was no doubt now that this was a god, powerful and terrible, stood colossal over all that ever was. 

How could he ever hope to challenge this thing? It was his own despair made flesh. Shame and sin and evil. There would never be an escape. The Sin of the World. He was less than weak. He was nothing. The Sin of the World screamed, shattering him. 

~o~O~o~

“Well,” said Alistair regretfully, “at least one survived.” The way Duncan had touched the elf… He had never seen the man act like that before. Just what was Rav to him? What had he done to earn such affection? 

Duncan sighed. It was an ugly business, but at least his prayers to the Maker were answered. Raviathan would live. Duncan wondered how betrayed the elf would feel. “We don’t have much time. Let’s move them to the pyre.” Alistair nodded as they stripped Daveth’s weapons and pockets. When finished Alistair took the ankles while Duncan hoisted the body by the arms. As they walked to the nearby fire, now a funeral pyre, Duncan said, “Tell me about Rav. How did he handle the Wilds?” 

“Well. For the most part he’s wary in battle movements but, um, incautious. At times? He did most of the coordination. Kept me and Jory back while he and Daveth took out two wolf packs and a few darkspawn groups with a bow.” 

“Had you hang back? Who led?” asked Duncan.

“He did. Jory was waffling a bit, nervous about the darkspawn. Daveth had more backbone until we met the witch, but he wasn’t giving any orders. Rav stepped up at once.” 

“Did he show much fear?” 

Alistair squinted as he thought. “Not really. Almost none. At lot less than I did when I first saw darkspawn. He doesn’t back down from a fight.” He stopped as they swung the body up on the pyre then turned back to get Jory. “Good in a skirmish. Decent fighter. Quick.” Alistair scratched his head. “Observant too. He found this odd Chasind book and was able to talk to them with a flute.” Alistair chuckled at Duncan’s look. “Code of some sort he figured out. He also warned us when there were darkspawn hiding in the shadows.” 

After removing Jory’s knife and coin pouch, they picked him up. “What do you think about him personally?” 

Alistair frowned. “Don’t really know yet. He seems thoughtful. Quiet sort. Tried to keep the peace, I suppose. I… well, he got us through some sketchy situations, but I’m not sure I trust his judgment.” Alistair said with his brow creased, “He got along with the witches easily enough. The young one liked him, and the old one thought he was smart.” 

“You are not a templar anymore, Alistair. Apostates are welcome among us.” 

“I know, I know. I would have handled things differently. But his way worked. We got the treaties.” 

They tossed up the second corpse. Duncan bent his head as Alistair said a prayer to the Maker to watch over the spirits of the fallen. Out of the three, the knight was the only one who volunteered. Duncan reflected on the irony of that. They left the pyre, and Duncan felt the back of Raviathan’s head to see if there would be a bump. Satisfied there wasn’t much damage, he handed Alistair a pendant. “How did he treat the witches?”

Alistair shrugged as he took the chalice and a prepared pendant with a vial embedded inside. “He was polite. I don’t think he trusts them any more than I do, but he was willing to talk with them.” 

Duncan opened his mouth to continue when they noticed the elf stirring. The old Warden knelt by the elf with Alistair standing close by. Raviathan’s eyes fluttered open but not yet focusing. Duncan said, “It is finished. You are now a Grey Warden.” 

“Welcome, brother.” 

Raviathan slowly got up with Duncan’s assistance then rubbed the back of his head where it had banged on the stone floor. Duncan asked, “How do you feel?” 

“I…I’m fine.” Yeah right, thought Alistair. They both knew, well now all three of them knew just how painful the Joining was. Raviathan searched the temple floor, his eyes settling on the pool of blood. “Was there no talking to Jory?” 

Duncan’s face filled with sorrow. “Jory was warned there was no turning back. His panic risked all our lives. I took no pleasure in ending his life or watching Daveth die as he did. The sacrifices of many lives must be made, as you know.” 

With relief Raviathan heard his mentor’s patient voice, grateful to see the mentor he had come to know after that cold resolution had overtaken the warrior. Comforting though it was, Raviathan would never forget that other Duncan who would carry out his duty above all other considerations. In that moment, he had seen Duncan’s full nature. His mentor was naturally given to kindness, to protecting the weak, but that wasn’t who he was at the core. It had frightened Raviathan to see that side, but it was reassuring as well. The Grey Wardens did what they must. More than the Maker, that was something he could trust in. It was real.

“Did you have dreams? I had terrible dreams after my Joining.” 

Raviathan glanced at Alistair uncomfortably, not quite ready to chance a nod with his aching head. “Yes.”

“Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn. That and many other things can be explained in the months to come. I can finally answer some of your questions,” Duncan added with a bit of humor. Raviathan managed a weak smile. In truth, Raviathan felt like he was in mourning. Part of him was on that pyre. 

Alistair said, “Before I forget, there is one last part to your Joining. We take some of that blood and put it into a pendant. Something to remind us of those who didn’t make it this far.” He placed a little engraved vial into Raviathan’s outstretched hand. 

“Take some time,” said Duncan. “When you’re ready, I would like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king. Alistair, let the rest of the Wardens know what happened tonight then meet me at the fire pit.” 

“Of course, Duncan,” Alistair said. He gave a last look at the two then left. 

A meeting with the king? That was unexpected, Raviathan thought numbly. The humiliation he had felt before was a distant nothing. How petty that had been. After the Sin of the World breaks your soul apart, what was a meeting with the King? “What kind of meeting?” 

“Strategy for the upcoming battle against the darkspawn,” Duncan responded. “You did impress him earlier.” 

Raviathan frowned still reeling from the ritual. A little tendril of his magic went to work on healing the bump to his skull. “I thought he was mocking me.” 

Now that they were alone again, Duncan laid an arm along his charge’s shoulders. Raviathan closed his eyes feeling as weak and shaky as a newborn. For now, it was just good to rest. “No, Rav,” Duncan said softly. 

Raviathan leaned in for the comfort of Duncan’s solid body. “Your dreams. It’s the Archdemon.” 

“Yes. Now you understand.” Duncan squeezed him tight. “I wish I didn’t have to do that to you, but there aren’t enough people like you in this world. You’re too vital. Now more than ever.” 

He was too far gone to cry, but he mourned his innocence. “I don’t know what I can do. I’ve never felt more helpless in my life. Not even when I watched my mother die.” 

“You’re stronger than you know, my boy. Every night I prayed that you would survive. Every night, Rav. I watched you from the moment we met, and every hour we were together, I was more sure that I had made the right decision.” 

Unable to respond to the overwhelming faith the human had in him, Raviathan lightly punched Duncan. “You just like having someone to warm your bed.” 

“Well of course. Why else would I keep you around?” 

Raviathan looked up to see Duncan’s white smile in the shadowed face. “I knew there had to be a practical reason in there somewhere. I’m just too pretty for you to resist.” 

That earned a chuckle. He rubbed Raviathan’s back, regretting that there would be no sleep tonight. When the nightmares started again, he never thought he’d look forward to sleep again. Would his talisman against the nightmares still work now that Raviathan had taken in the taint? “Are you ready to go to the meeting?” 

“Not yet. I want to take a moment to get my thoughts together.”

“I know you’ve had a long day, but we must press on. We must always press forward.” 

Raviathan let out a long sigh. “I know. I just need a moment. Besides, I have a few things I want to take care of first.” 

“Oh? What have you been busy doing? Other than the soldiers that is.” 

Raviathan looked up in surprise. “You know?” 

Duncan laughed. “Word has gotten around, yes.” 

“Maybe that’s why Cailan is so impressed.” 

“Just remember whose bed mate you are.” 

Weak and raw as he was, Raviathan laughed. “Since I’m a full Grey Warden now, I should celebrate by getting a proper backpack instead of using a pillow sack.” There’s that mabari, and if that that tranquil is gone, maybe I can get to the stash he protected. 

“Ah. Quite right. Then I hope to see you soon. The meeting is to the west, down the stairs.” 

The little healing magic had fixed Raviathan’s headache, so he nodded in assent. 

Though the elf was exhausted, Duncan knew there would be little respite for him. Most Grey Wardens had at least a few days to recover from the Joining if not a week. A great deal more that was asked from this elf from the start. However, Raviathan wouldn’t be the first put upon Grey Warden in the many years of blight wars, wars that had sacrificed countless numbers of the Grey, and he wouldn’t be the last. Duncan squeezed his shoulder and left for the meeting. 

Raviathan watched the old warrior go. Once alone the full weight of the ritual fell on him. Raviathan sat with his back against the stone wall with his head in hands. What have I done? 

He had always taken care of his body, exercised and stayed fit. For years he had studied the body and knew how to care for most problems. Though sometimes emotionally hurtful, he thought of sex as an essentially healthy activity. Now with the blackness inside him, he realized he had always thought of his body as a temple, something to be cared for and kept clean. Now it was desecrated. He had never felt so dirty in his life now that there was living sin inside him. It was alive. It crawled around his innards like a ball of worms. It made him sick knowing that the sin would be absorbed, carried through his blood, become fully part of him. 

A Grey Warden. The words settled into his mind as the sin settled into his body. Raviathan smiled in cold victory as he sat in the shadows of the temple. Never again would he need to fear the templars. Never again would he need to bow his head as some lowly elf to be spat upon by shemlens. There would be no more working at the docks, no furtive life as a servant. 

He examined the pendant in his hand. The casing looked like scrimshaw. It was rather plain but solid, just simple banding for the sealed vial within. Sometimes victory was cold. He had a new life. Not one of his choosing, but a new life that held promise. The sick feeling would go away, he was sure. He rolled the pendant between his fingers. 

In one moment Duncan had shown him what it meant to be a Grey Warden. It had been an epiphany. A cord inside Raviathan’s soul came to life and resonated to the resolution he had seen. The Grey Wardens do what they must. They protected the weak when they could; they sacrificed when sacrifice was necessary. Whatever it took, they had a purpose that was above all other considerations. He was free from the templars for one reason—because he served the greater good. His mother had trained him, and he had taken the path that she had forgone. Raviathan placed the cord of the pendant around his neck. 

I am a Grey Warden.


	32. Plans and Tactics – Pets

“Careful with the oil there.” 

Raviathan gave a brief nod as he cut the flower ovary, squeezing the contents into the into the mixing stone. Hundreds of pale seeds spilled from the flower. 

“Ah, brilliant. You have done this sort of work before.” 

“Yes,” Raviathan replied to the kennel master. “So, grind the seeds then add the mix.” 

“Aye, that’s right. Mix it with a bit of cheese so he’ll eat it, and you’re done.” 

“Cheese? The protein and fat don’t affect the mixture?” 

The kennel master’s brows raised. “Hadn’t thought of that. Um, some bread then, perhaps.” Raviathan continued to work as the kennel master watched him. The human’s proximity would have been an irritant had other matters not overshadowed Raviathan thoughts. “Pardon, Warden, but are you feeling well?” 

“Fine.” 

“You, ah, look a bit peaked, is all.” 

“Long day.”

“Aye, that. Not yet over either, eh. You’ll be in the battle then?” 

“I expect so.” 

The kennel master nodded then handed Raviathan a scrap of day old bread. The elf took the mixture to the kennel, the bread softening as it soaked. He didn’t hesitate this time as he knelt by the mabari. At a gentle touch to the mabari’s neck, the dog’s eyes opened to settle on him. The poor animal was dying and in so much pain it made Raviathan’s chest tighten. 

“I’m going to take the muzzle off,” Raviathan whispered, his fingers unconsciously scratching the dog behind the ears. “Be good and eat this.” 

The dog whimpered, and Raviathan had to hold up the dog’s neck so that it could eat from the bowl. “That’s right. That’s a good dog.” The dog whimpered again, and Raviathan laid him back down doing his best not to cause more pain. Already the animal was starting to stiffen. There was no point for the muzzle anymore. 

Might as well let the dog die with what peace he could provide. Since his back was to the kennel master, and a quick glance showed no one was about, Raviathan laid a hand over the dog’s heart. It beat under his hand, slow and far too weak. Raviathan created his first spell, the magic flowing into the dog. The light born from the spell was channeled into the dog's body so only a faint red glow silhouetted Raviathan's hand in the darkness.

Leaving the bowl on a nearby table, Raviathan left for the meeting with the king. He walked with a surreal ease as if he remained still while the fortress moved around him. The old pine trees and stone, the shadows and shifting firelight, everything seemed eternal and he just as ancient, if not in this world than in the memory of the Fade. Like the stones that made this fortress, he had been broken apart and reformed. Echoed in the blocks was the mountain they came from, ancient beyond life and remade then remade again: from mountain, to block, to brick, to stone, to earth. A remote part of his mind was still working as it normally did, another part he could feel memorizing these moments. What he had seen in the Fade, had experienced with the totality of his being, was looping over and over like a water wheel in his mind. 

How long had he been in the Fade? A few moments, nothing to the annuls of history, yet everything was different as if the whole of the universe had shifted sideways. What was left of his rational mind argued with him. Nothing is different. The taint, the old gods, the Maker, all these incomprehensible forces that were deeper than all of the oceans, vaster than the endless night sky, they were just as they had been this morning when he woke on the side of the road. Nothing had changed, yet everything was different. 

The taint sat like a stone in his stomach, its poison leaking into him. Part of his mind wanted to take a dagger, slice open his stomach as if the taint were a tumor to be excised. The saner part of him keep his hand from reaching for a blade. Strangely, a memory of his mother singing kept repeating, drowning out the rest. The sane and not so sane fragments of his mind let the song take over. Her voice filled him up, brought him back together, acted as both shield and salve. 

I am a Grey Warden. 

A rumble of thunder from the south sounded low in the pressurized air. Elves scurried about, frantic to protect the items under their assigned care. The rest of the fortress was near deserted of soldiers who were down in the valley. 

He settled his new backpack as he walked to the meeting. The straps were wide, the pack well balanced so he didn’t notice it as he moved. Raviathan wondered how obvious the change in him was. The quartermaster stared at him as they traded, Raviathan mostly quiet but getting good prices nonetheless. The reactions from shems that had irritated him before just didn't matter to him anymore. Let the shems stare. He couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Now he had a new dagger in his boot, a few survival items, and more coin than he ever had in his life. He had sold the lyrium potions swiped from the mage’s chest. While the blue potion hypnotized him, he dared not carry such goods until his standing in the Wardens was irrefutable. He could always claim that the tiny vial remaining in his healer's kit was for research purposes.

No matter the danger, he couldn’t give up the book now hidden in his pack. The book on herbalism and potion recipes had made him gasp as he flipped through the pages. Solyn’s knowledge had been limited to what she learned in Tevinter and the bits she gleaned from other healers, but she was not as well versed in Fereldan fauna. This book was a wealth of mundane and spectacular potions. Now that he was a Warden he might be able to make items from the few Fade infused ingredients found in this world, rare fire crystals and frostrock, items that were now settled protectively in his healer’s kit. 

The King’s armor gleamed in the gloom of the antechamber. What a target he makes, Raviathan thought. I could see that golden armor from miles away, even at night. Others were gathered around the main table, Loghain’s indomitable form, nobles and knights, a Chantry mother, a mage. And there was Duncan. Raviathan’s heart lifted to see him mentor. All the odd fragmented thoughts came together. Duncan had survived the Joining. If there was one other person Raviathan knew understood him, it was Duncan. Raviathan moved to stand beside his mentor, pride filling his chest and peace coming over him. 

“Ah, and here is the recruit!” The king was smiling at him. “I understand congratulations are in order.” 

Raviathan met his gaze with a level calm. “Yes, Your Majesty.” 

A frown crossed the king’s brows as he regarded the elf. Cailan wore much the same expression as the others Raviathan had talked with tonight: puzzled, watchful, a bit curious, and wary. A touch of sadness set Cailan apart from the rest, for what, Raviathan couldn’t guess. Duncan shifted at his side, moving close enough so that Raviathan could feel his presence as he would the heat from a campfire. 

“You do seem changed. Duncan said there was no going back once you were part of the Order, but I did not realize how true his words were. One day, Duncan, I will have to learn this secret.” 

“Your Majesty…” 

“I know, I know,” Cailan said, a tolerant sigh cutting off the argument. “If only all our knights could be so easily trained.” 

Chuckles from the other nobles met Cailan’s quip. 

“Indeed, but readied and at your command nonetheless,” said a noble with a red stag on his crest. “My men are in position, Your Majesty.” 

“As are mine,” replied another noble with bright blonde hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. “These darkspawn certainly seem to love the taste of defeat.” 

More laughter greeted this statement. Cries of support filled the antechamber. Bravado, or were these nobles truly so blind, Raviathan wondered. 

“Good,” said Cailan. “And you, Duncan?” 

“Your Majesty,” Loghain said through a clenched jaw. “I protest again.” The tension in the small party rose.

“Noted, now Bann Fer-”

“Why are you putting so much faith in these Wardens?” Loghain said the word as if it were a curse. “They tell us nothing of their Order, not even the most basic facts of how they are organized. You cannot be sure of their purpose.” 

A hand on Raviathan’s shoulder warned him to stay quiet while they watched the two men. Cailan turned on Loghain. “Their purpose is to fight the darkspawn.” 

“Their purpose is to bring in the Orlesians!” Loghain’s voice matched the coming thunder. “Two hundred march at our border. We weaken here with only wives and children defending our castles. These Wardens have turned against the crown before. How can you not see this?” 

Cailan stood at his full height as he glared at Loghain. “You speak of the past, Loghain. And you speak out of turn. Currently, I’m wondering about your loyalty.” 

The accusation hit like a slap. The nobles shifted, their bluster for the coming battle diminishing as their leaders fought. 

Madness, Raviathan thought. To do this here? Now? Their armies will fracture like glass. 

“Your Majesty,” Loghain began, his voice steady if not calm. “All I have ever cared for is this land. I would protect Ferelden with my life.” 

“Then the plan remains.” Cailan turned his attention back to the maps. “We draw the darkspawn into the valley below, and you will lead your men from the flank at the signal.” 

“Your Majesty,” Loghain said. “Will you not reconsider where you will stand during the battle? As the king you should not be near the skirmish.”

Cailan’s fist clenched, the metal of his armor scraping. “We are all needed in this fight.” 

“We are, Your Majesty,” said the mage. He had a pinched face, his sallow skin carrying a hint of sunburn. While his muted robes were designed to be unobtrusive, his manner demanded attention. Raviathan studied him. A scholar, soft bodied and pale from lack of sun during his life, but with ambition giving him nervous energy. “We would do our part as well by lighting the signal.” 

The Chantry mother’s lips pulled back. “We will trust no mage. Keep your demon damned spells pointed at the darkspawn.” 

Glaring at the priestess, the mage stepped back then lowered his head. So, clearly the priestesses had the king’s favor over the mages. Raviathan wondered if he would still have the king’s favor if Cailan learned an apostate stood only feet from him. Flemeth had asked about beliefs, and Raviathan saw the damage beliefs wrought now. The mages wielded magic, real, demonstrable power. A mage’s power was not some abstract thing to be debated. The priestesses though? They prayed to a god who had long turned his gaze away from this world. They may sooth a man’s conscience, but their power was all in what men gave them. 

“I can put some of my men on the task,” Loghain said. “Though not dangerous, the signal is vital for the success of the battle.” 

“Your men are needed most,” Cailan said. “If it is not dangerous, have Alistair do this.” 

Raviathan expected another fight from Loghain for putting a Warden in charge of the signal, but the battle weary knight nodded before returning his attention to the maps. 

“Duncan, have your new recruit join him. Find me when you are done,” Cailan said. 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” 

Discussions for the battle continued as Duncan lead Raviathan away. In moments the nobles were rallying again, their cheers sounding overly optimistic in a world divorced from the Maker’s sight. Raviathan asked in a low voice, “Why did the king want me there?” 

“I believe he wanted to see for himself how the Joining changes a person. He has been curious, but you can understand why the ritual must remain a secret.” 

Yes, yes he could. “Light the signal?” 

“At the top of the Tower of Ishal. Oil and fire crystal are set to make a fire bright enough to be seen from any point for miles around the valley, even with the coming storm. Alistair will know what to look for.” 

“Alistair.” Raviathan’s lips thinned. 

Duncan’s hand squeezed his shoulder then turned them so they were face to face. “Rav. The signal is your priority, not mage politics. That said, I want you to guard Alistair in this task.” 

“Guard him?” 

At Raviathan’s confusion, Duncan’s expression softened. “I understand your feelings about templars. I do. I would ask you to care for Alistair as he is now your brother. Rav, this is important to me.” 

That fool meant so much to Duncan? If Duncan had said the task was important, that would be a simple order. However, ‘important to me’ echoed in Raviathan’s thoughts. The words were not just about Raviathan working with the other members of the Wardens. Duncan had a personal attachment to that shem. “Of course, Duncan. As you will.” 

“Good lad.” They continued down the slope from the antechamber to the main fort. “Now you can see how precarious our situation is and the need for tact. While Loghain’s opinions are not the king’s own, he is a powerful teyrn and holds considerable sway. Without his military backing, we would be sorely pressed.” 

A glint of gold caught Raviathan’s eye. The king was parading with his nobles through the gates to the battle below. “Once the signal is lit, shall I join you?” 

“I’ll send word if you are needed. Can you find Alistair from here?” 

“Yes, Duncan.” After a moment’s hesitation, Raviathan added, “Maker watch over you.” 

“May he watch over us all,” Duncan said. Raviathan watched his mentor’s retreating back, wondering at their little ritual prayers to the Maker. The words were habit, not true sentiment. 

Remembering his earlier despair, Raviathan felt the Joining vision with stinging clarity. Alone. Empty. Worthless. The Maker had abandoned them. Even when Raviathan had known that truth for years, the pain of abandonment had never stabbed at his heart as it did now. Shred him with broken glass so he bled from a dozen wounds, and that would be better than this forsaken existence. Living evil was amassing beneath his feet, evil that would rise and strike at any time. There was no getting away from it, no hiding. No escape. When darkspawn erupted from the ground to taint all they touched, when an old god could shatter his soul without effort, the world was lost without the Maker. 

How could the Maker leave them like this? It was as senseless as leaving a baby in a forest to be torn apart by wolves. Our lives are such tiny, fragile things. We are blind and stumbling through this world. How could a being of such magnitude not understand our limited existence? How could he not have compassion for his own children? 

With a shock that stopped him cold, Raviathan realized the darkspawn had more faith than he did. They believed in the old gods and served with single minded purpose. The old gods hadn’t deserted the darkspawn as the Maker had his own creation. The old gods sang to the darkspawn, filling their devotees’ minds with the power of eternal presence, an undeniable knowledge that they were chosen to serve, that their god would always be with them. 

We sing to a god who has deserted us, and their god sings to gather them. 

Justice does not exist in this world. 

With a bitter twist to his lips, Raviathan walked to the campfire where Alistair waited, an apostate having to defend a templar. Justice is a cosmic joke. 

 

~o~O~o~

 

Duncan made his way quickly through the interior of the fortress to meet with the Grey Wardens a final time before that battle. To his surprise, Tamriel was slouched against a hallway wall waiting for him with his arms crossed over his chest and head down, a common position for the elf. The elf looked almost bored though his hard eyes remained watchful. The old knife scars made long shadows along his face. The lanky black hair was kept long to help hide a docked ear, but the slashed top was still noticeable for the absence of a peeking ear point. He was small and wiry but was surprisingly strong despite his lean frame. When he saw Duncan he gave a small nod to a side room that had been used as storage though stood mostly empty until new supplies came. 

Figuring this had something to do with Alistair’s report of the newest Grey Warden, Duncan followed with guarded interest. He wanted to get the other elf’s opinion, but the cold contained manner suggested the elf was upset. 

When the door closed Tamriel rasped out, “Alistair’s told us ‘bout this new one.” Having grown up in the more wild parts near Gwaren, Tamriel had a rolling dialect that was thicker when he was angry, as it was now. 

“Raviathan,” Duncan said. 

Tamriel’s head stayed tilted down, his arms crossed defensively, but he glared at Duncan with eyes that looked bird black when they didn’t reflect silvery green in the low light. “He says you’re close.” 

That was an accusation if Duncan ever heard one. As reclusive as Tamriel usually was, he hadn’t normally been difficult to handle. Generally the elf kept his head down and did as he was ordered with less fuss than most, but that was not the situation here. “He’s been explaining a lot about elven culture. I’ve come to realize how many unintended slights…” 

Tamriel stepped up to him then, dark eyes glowing. “Did ye make a pet out of that boy?” 

Keeping his cool, Duncan looked down his nose at the smaller man. “Careful,” he warned. “And no. I didn’t recruit Rav to be my personal whore.” 

Tamriel waved a dismissive hand at that. “I didn’a ask if ye’d fucked him. Have ya been sleeping with him?” At Duncan’s reaction, Tamriel’s lip curled, and he thumped his back against the wall in much the same slouch Duncan had seen in the hallway. “Ahgh,” he rumbled deep in his throat. “Aye, that’s just great.” 

“It isn’t like that,” Duncan said. 

“Oh, don’t start with me. I’ve followed ye without complaint, and I’ll continue to do so. But ye listen here Duncan, ye don’t understand shite about elves.” 

What was he missing this time? “This was hardly my first encounter with elves, and Rav is not my pet.” 

Tamriel turned those hard, midnight eyes back up though his face remained averted. “Pets don’t always mean sex. Why’d ye think they’d call us pets rather than whores? Does ‘e want to be close ta ya? Follow orders easily, maybe eagerly, and do what ‘e can ta serve ya? Without yer even asking? Like a smart dog perhaps? Likes it when ye touch ‘im? Don’t bother saying it. I can see that in your face clear as day.” 

With a growing knot of dread that had nothing to do with the upcoming battle, Duncan realized what Tamriel said was more true than he wanted to believe. Though he wasn’t convinced yet, the implications were something to watch out for. “What would that mean for Rav?” 

Some of the anger drained out of Tamriel as he watched Duncan. “Don’t rightly know. Ta cast ‘im off now would just cause ‘im more hurt.” With and exasperated fall of his shoulders, Tamriel faced him. “Why’d ya do it, Duncan? Surely the lad warned ye off?” 

Duncan sighed, sat on a crate, and Tamriel did likewise. “We don’t have time to get into it, but Rav was very upset with events which lead to his conscription. I put down most of his anger to that.” Duncan waved his arm as if that could help explain what happened. “He didn’t want to share a bed, but there was only one available the first few days. He slept on the floor, but it was so cold the first night.” Duncan rubbed his forehead. He didn’t need this distraction less than an hour away before a battle. Maker help him if this was true. “Afterwards he explained that sharing a bed was considered intimate. More than sex. By then though, he seemed fine with it.” 

Leaning down with his arms on his legs, Duncan wondered how something that had filled him with calm only a few hours ago could have gone so pear shaped. His hopes of Raviathan acting as a bridge for this elf had evaporated. How would the two get along? Would Tamriel respect him as a brother or give Raviathan problems for becoming a pet? And did this mean that Raviathan was still going to be suspicious of his new brothers because they wouldn’t have the relationship Duncan did with him? “You said it would be worse to cast him off?” 

“Aye,” Tamriel agreed. “I don’a keep myself so separate just ‘cause I’ve reason to detest shems so. It’s for my own protection since I’ve not bonded my life with another.” 

Duncan hadn’t heard of that before, not with elves at least. Not that he talked to many elves, but Fiona hadn’t said anything about it. It hadn’t come up with the other elves he had more casual relationships with, like Valendrian. “Bonded your life?”

“Ta be honest, most elves don’t even think ‘bout this ‘cause it’s just the way we are. It weren’t until I was around humans so that I came to understand it better. I hate ta say it, ‘cause we’re so abused this way, but we want to serve. It’s a part of our nature unless it gets a beaten out of us. Like children love their parents unless they gets too hurt by ‘em. That’s why it’s easy to exploit us so. Beat an elven servant, he’ll still come back ta ya, whimpering like a dog. Makes our communities tight, even in times of despair. Makes us slaves ta shems who can’a feel the same.” He paused clasping his hands. “You’re a good man, Duncan. I know ye’d not do that intentionally.” 

“You’re not bonded? What does that mean?” As with some of Raviathan’s explanations making Tamriel’s behavior suddenly clear, Tamriel was doing the same for the other elf. Holy Maker. Had he really turned the boy into a pet? The idea sickened him. 

“I don’a want to say too much since all of us is different, just like with you shems. It’s… argh. I hate to say such, but like them mabari.” Tamriel’s head hung, tension making his body wire tight. “Not, not dogs, but we’re so close to the Fade like. The way them mabari bond, well, we’re a bit of the same. It’s our way of devoting ourselves to a mate. Ye know the history, how we used to live forever. Shems can’a go twenty years without turning from their mate. Imagine you and your mate are together for thousands. Takes something a wee bit stronger than young lust to weather the endless time.” 

Tamriel wrung his hands as he talked, a sign he wasn’t comfortable with the conversation. As far as Duncan had known the man, he had never once heard Tamriel talk about love or relationships. “For it to be a true mating among our kin, it’s got ta be mutual and can happen sort’a quick like. Not always, but usually. Some find their mate easier than others. When ye see a couple not acting right, usually they didn’a bond to begin with. Mated elves who are cruel, well that’s just unnatural. It marks ‘em, ye know? They’re broken like. What ye have to understand it that we don’a even realize it’s what we do. We can control it a bit, like when we know someone’s forbidden or already mated. But he’d not even be aware enough to try and protect himself. I think that’s why marriages are arranged, ta keep the youngins safe from themselves. It’s why we marry young, too.”

“Rav and I aren’t mated.”

“Didn’a ya think the boy took to ye rather quick?” 

“A few days,” Duncan admitted. 

Tamriel waved a hand. “It can happen outside our race. That’s when ye get pets, ‘cause it’s so one sided. For all that a shem might love an elf, ain’t nearly the same. Bloody hurts to see one of ours pine for a mate that’s grown cold.”

“Can an elf be bonded to more than one person?”

“If one is lost, grief closes us for years. Not often but a few elves will be able ta let their heartsickness go, ta find another who can fill their days.”

“What about two at the same time?” 

Tamriel looked at him askance, one eyebrow high to make the furrows of his brow deep. “Not heard of that before.” 

“He was married,” Duncan said quietly. 

“And you took him from that?” Tamriel looked stricken. “Ah, Duncan, why?”

“A longer story than we have time for now, but he was going to the gallows. I conscripted him to save him.”

“Aye, then.” Sorrow bowed Tamriel’s head, his hands clasped tight before him. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but it’s not good.” 

“Not good?” 

“Mayhap he wasn’a mated truly with his wife?”

“He was. If I knew nothing else, that I could see.”

Murmuring deep in his throat, Tamriel lowered his head. “Ain’t natural to take to another so quick like that. I’d tell ye more, but now’s not the time. Once I get a sense of the boy and what happened, I can make it clearer for ya.” 

The Calling wasn’t far off. If only he had more time. Until now, he had thought he made his peace with it. “He takes away the nightmares,” Duncan said quietly. 

“What?” Tamriel’s brows crossed, making the shadows deepen in a face that belonged more to a world weary villain. 

Duncan bowed his head. “I’ve started having the nightmares. In a month or two, I’ll have to take the Calling.” Tamriel sat up straight with alarm then sorrow crossing his face. He didn’t say anything, but his look was clear enough. They both knew Duncan was getting older, but the Calling didn’t come at the same time for everyone, and it did strike by surprise at times. Duncan said, “When we,” this was awkward to explain, even to an elf who understood the distinctions. “When he’s close, I don’t have the nightmares.” 

Tamriel cocked his head, looking like an inquisitive blackbird. “I’ve not heard that before either.” 

Duncan blinked rapidly. He didn’t want to give Raviathan up. It had felt too good to have his burdens eased for just a short time. “Rav really wouldn’t understand what’s going on?” 

Tamriel shook his head. “If he’s been brought up in an alienage, he’d a have little ta no experience with how different shems and elves can be. If he’d grown knowing only humans, he might of have a better understanding, but it’s all instinctual for us. Those who’ve gotten cynical ‘bout it,” he gave Duncan a look letting him know that the elf considered himself to be of the latter kind, “usually have had a bit of both. Living betwixt elves and humans. Ye don’t think ‘bout that sort of thing normally ‘less someone points it out to ye. Like saying humans are never satisfied with what they’ve got.” 

“I don’t know if that’s fair,” Duncan said, but he wasn’t angry. 

“Oh?” the elf replied with a sardonic raise of his eyebrow. “Look at this swamp. Nothin’s here to want. Fog and wastes, but here’s a ruin a thousand years old ‘cause humans wanted more. Just over those mountains ta the west is a forest that none live in ‘cept dryads and other monsters. But that Chantry didn’a want elves to have that small plot of freedom with our own gods. Ye know about the occupation of this land, what ended only thirty years ago, a frozen country so that ye complain ‘bout it every winter when your knees ache. Still, humans wanted more. And that’s not even getting to the rich who stomp on everyone for just a wee bit more. Compare all that ta elves. We just want ta serve or ta be left alone. We live in shit and complain only when we’re starved ta bones.” 

Though too broad a generalization, there was some truth to the elf’s words. Getting up, Duncan said, “Battle’s going to begin soon. We can continue this discussion later.” 

“Aye. That king’s a right idiot though.” Enthusiasm changed the elf’s manner from night to day. “Did ye know ‘bout Loghain and the night elves he called them?” 

“Watch how you speak about the king.” 

“Oh, I know, but it’s just us right now. But night elves hunting the Orlesians like hawks on rabbits? That’s right keen.” 

“I’ve heard something about that. During the last years of the rebellion.” Doubtless Raviathan would also be interested in that bit of history. 

“Ah, Duncan,” Tamriel said in a low voice as they left the room to make their way through the deserted hall to the Grey Wardens’ campsite. “Do naw trouble yerself overmuch ‘bout this boy. Perhaps it’s not so bad seeing a good side ta ya race. If it were ta be anyone, you’d be the one I’d pick ta help ‘im through. We’ll get it sorted out soon enough.” 

The change in Tamriel’s opinion was probably due to Duncan’s confession about the Calling. He clapped a hand on the elf’s shoulder as they left the lower gates but took it away quickly now that he understood the elf’s distance. But another of Tamriel’s remarks kept his attention. To serve. Even when Tamriel was rightfully upset about what Duncan had unwittingly done to another of his kind, the elf was now putting him and the battle first. “What did Alistair say exactly?” 

“Don’a worry. Lad was smart enough not to blurt that out in front of everyone. Took me aside and asked. Aye, but he’s been worried about ya, gone fer as long as ye were.” 

Ah, Alistair. Struck anew by Tamriel’s words, Duncan wondered what Alistair might have inherited from his mother.


	33. Plans and Tactics – Ambush

Alistair stared at him for a moment as shock turned to anger and confusion. “What do you mean? I’m supposed to be in the battle.” 

“Not according to Duncan or the King.” Raviathan flipped up his hood as the first drops of cold rain hit him.

With a shake of his head, Alistair started towards the gate, his long strides gaining speed. 

Stupid templar. “Hey.” Bloody stupid templar. “Hey!” Raviathan had to jog to catch up. “These are Duncan’s orders.” 

“Were they now?” 

Raviathan grabbed Alistair’s arm, forcing him to stop and face him. “They said you would know the signal. I don’t.” 

“The signal,” Alistair said in disgust. “They need two Wardens to light the signal. Right.” 

“Duncan is down in the valley fighting. They will be overwhelmed if Loghain’s forces don’t get the signal to charge.” Raviathan shook his arm. “You are needed. Stop fighting your orders.” 

Alistair jerked his arm away. “Yeah. Fine.” He glared at the gate, mouth tight and nostrils flared. “Let’s go, shall we?” 

Shems and their attitudes. Raviathan watched him as they turned, half sure Alistair would make some stupid run for the gate as soon as his back was turned. Instead, Alistair grudgingly trotted along through the fortress with him. In truth, Raviathan agreed that this mission was a waste of two Wardens considering their immunity. The only reason he could fathom not sending a messenger was that the king knew Alistair for a fool. Loghain too? Odd that that seasoned general had agreed without any comment considering how he hated Wardens. 

“Maker’s breath! Would you just look at that.” The soldiers manning a ballista crowded around the edge of a platform. 

“Andraste’s tits! Word is they’ve been growing, but this?” 

Despite their hurry to get to the tower, both Alistair and Raviathan took a moment to view the valley below. Raviathan shook his head then rubbed at his eyes. He couldn’t make sense of the scene. Maybe the light was wrong or the rain blurring the world? Having lived his whole life surrounded by walls, he wasn’t sure he could see right in open spaces. Or the taint wasn’t done poisoning his blood. What he saw couldn’t be real. 

Alistair swore under his breath. “Come on. Signal lighting suddenly seems very important.” 

Dazed, Raviathan followed. That wasn’t real. Shadows from campfires playing tricks on him. His mind kept stuttering over the image, unable to make sense of it but unable to let go. Panic started to bring him out the trance he had been in since the Joining. Raviathan had to fight an overwhelming urge to race down to the rest of the Wardens. Duncan shouldn’t be there. 

Raviathan glared at the templar’s back as new fury flooded him. This idiot! What kind of Warden needs to be protected doing some simple task like this? Duncan has an army to face, and I’m stuck with this sorry excuse of a mage hunting shem. By the fires, how did this man survive the Joining? 

Instead of following, Raviathan glanced back at the scene below. Black clouds, dark as in the Fade, roiled unnaturally, so close Raviathan thought he would be able to touch them from the top of the Tower of Ishal. The storm clouds moved too fast, appearing more like boiling metal that undulated in a thick, bubbling mass. For a second, Raviathan felt trapped as if he were back in the ruins. The taint pressed in from above, swarmed from below, chocking off any escape. Trapped. His heart beat faster. Trapped. 

Fires sparred with the rain, spitting their proud light against the total blackness that lay thick as a shroud over men and monsters alike. Only the armor of humans picked up light, the fire’s energy dulled by iron and steel. The tainted army had fire as well. Torches made eyes glow, illuminated snatches of arms, crude weapons with many blades, shown red in the long lines of horns. What was shadow and what was the walking evil? Where did the darkspawn end? 

Pressurized air made the sounds from the army thicker, sluggish and almost physical. The bray of dogs competed with the shouts of men. Back in Denerim, the march of guards signaled trouble. This, though greatly magnified beyond what Raviathan had ever experienced, had the opposite effect. The sounds of orders and thuds from hundreds of feet filled him with a strange passion. He could feel the tension of all these men and women, their fear and excitement. Just as strange as this passion that thrummed through his blood was the kinship he felt for the soldiers below. Not once in his life would he have ever thought it possible that he would be on the side of shems. 

Beyond the army of humans, other sounds emerged: growls, far off shrieks that sounded like metal scraping against tortured metal, and a roar that made his stomach clench and skin turn cold. Whatever made that roar, it was huge. His Joining nightmare was coming to life in the valley below. There would be no escape from the horde. He couldn’t hide. He couldn’t outrun them. They were coming, and the only barrier between him and the mass of living evil was the army of humans. Although they had been part of the unbreakable barrier that had kept his kin behind walls for centuries, the humans seemed so pitiful in that moment. A few humans against that? 

Again, the roar echoed like thunder through the valley. The sin of the world was coming for him. Raviathan almost threw up at the sudden leaden weight in his blood. The sin of the world was in him, in his tainted blood. There was no escape. No way out. There had always been his father, Valendrian, the friends and neighbors who stood by him. He had never been alone before or had to face this kind of danger. Even with Vaughan, Raviathan’s kinfolk stood with him. Frightened, yes, but they were together. The darkspawn swarmed under his feet in the tunnels, crowded over his head in blackened clouds, surrounded him in every direction. No alienage anymore. Not even a god to pray to anymore. 

Alone. So alone it made his bones ache. Just one tiny elf against the world, like a grain of sand to hold back the ocean. 

“We need to cross the bridge to get to the tower!”

When Raviathan tore his eyes away from the swarming mass, he saw Alistair waiting for him near the bridge tower. Please be careful, Duncan. You’re all I have now. 

Shouts of alarm rose from soldiers on the bridge. Raviathan couldn’t see why they were scattering for the brief moment he was behind the bridge tower. The bridge grew brighter, alarmingly red, and a rough hand shoved him back behind the wall just as he was running out. The crash vibrated through the stone. Raviathan crouched low, his hands over his stinging ears. The ringing pounded in waves in his skull. He would have cursed the damage done to his sensitive ears if he hadn’t had the power to heal them. Now he glared at the templar standing over him. If the bastard shemlen would go away, he could heal this. Raviathan huffed out a breath. Better not chance anything until the templar was distracted. 

Past the tower, rubble lay strewn from a new scar in the bridge, flames licking up along the sides, but the bridge stood strong. Raviathan blinked in astonishment. How did the flames stay alive? A few smaller stones continued to burn, the translucent fire coating the stones like a gel. It must be made from fire crystal. The darkspawn knew how to make potions? The fire stones had to have been hurled from a great distance, so they also knew how to operate if not make complex weapons of war. Maybe the low ranked darkspawn were unintelligent, but there was intelligence somewhere in the horde. Had Duncan not known? Raviathan couldn’t comprehend Duncan being ignorant of these creatures, but either his mentor had truly been ignorant, or he was hiding knowledge. Why? 

Soldiers picked themselves up, brushing off rubble, and returning to their posts. A few weren’t moving as fast as they should, their bodies held in tight from damage. Impact wounds. Shock. There were other healers in the fortress, weren’t there? Raviathan bit his lip, wanting to tend these men first, to get them off the bridge and out of harm’s way until they were patched up. He hesitated as he passed the soldiers, but there was nothing for it. Not only was the templar close, Raviathan wasn’t sure about his position yet. Duncan hadn’t had time to make any announcement to protect some errant apostate turned Warden. There just had to be healers around. These were seasoned, well organized armies. They would know to prepare. 

Fear drove Raviathan across the bridge. He didn’t want to see the mass below again. He didn’t want to think of his body falling on the steep rocks below, his bones fragile as glass from this height. He didn’t want to think of the black clouds overhead, pressing down on him. He didn’t want to think of the mage hunter running after him. Raviathan was trapped, trapped and running in panic. The stone around him started glowing red. The color intensified with every step until he was running along stones bright as fire. 

Men shouted, their cries sounding distant and unimportant. The bridge vibrated under his feet, the crash searing his ears, hot air like a blacksmith’s furnace pressing against his back. Raviathan focused only on the second bridge tower. The open corridor dark but holding safety. His whole world focused down to that point. 

Raviathan hit the wall of the tower with a cool rush. He pressed his cheek to the stone as if the it could slow his heart. Comforting shadows blocked out the strange fire that clung to the bridge. The fire didn’t speak to his mind, but he could feel it inside, in a place beyond thought. There was a song to fire that he understood deep in his magical heart. Fire sang to him, the pureness of energy like birdsong, always calling out its existence to a kindred soul. 

That fire on the bridge had been different, slippery in its movements, enticing his power as if a seductress danced about him, bewitching as it ensnared him in veils of raw power. The Fade was energy, pure energy. On this side of the Veil, few things compared to the raw force of the Fade. Fire sang to his soul as the sun sang to plants. He needed to be away from the sliding, slippery power when he was in a panic. The flames wound around his soul in long, caressing fingers. In his state, he would feed that fire into a whirling towers. Not only would he expose himself, he was a danger to every soldier on that bridge. Fire was his comfort and could be as dangerous as a demon. 

Raviathan glanced back at the bridge. The templar was slowly getting back to his feet, shaking his head gingerly. Taking the opportunity, Raviathan healed the damage to his eardrum and nerve fibers. Inside the bridge tower, a tight interior stair lead to a roof for archers. Had there been a door, Raviathan could have knocked the templar out and stowed him there while he finished this business in peace. That would keep the templar safe for Duncan but out of the way. Raviathan sighed. The bloody signal, and he needed that bloody templar. The fool started to jog, his feet clumsy but gaining sureness with each step. Good to know the fool healed quickly. 

“Head alright?” Raviathan felt like he should ask. 

“Um, fine.” 

Wasting no more time on the shem, Raviathan jogged out of the alcove. Rain shot down in icy needles. He flipped his hood up as he ran through the heavy night. Get to the tower. Light the signal. Duncan will be fine. They’ve won all the battles thus far. Duncan will be fine. 

A flash of fire on metal caught Raviathan’s attention. Swords. Fighting? Up here? The cry of a human sounded over the din of rain followed by a low chuckle that echoed through the fort. Raviathan’s heart sped up. The heavy feel of adrenaline numbed his arms. That sound. That dreaded sound he was learning to fear like the stomp of soldiers’ feet in the alienage. It didn’t belong, the sound heralding coming pain. 

One large hurlock grinned down as the soldier fell, the blade of a second darkspawn buried in the man’s side. Raviathan picked up speed, his blades in his hands without thought. How did the darkspawn get here? Did they invade from the road? How many? Raviathan raised his sword block a blow as he charged into the hurlock’s side, his dagger striking deep into the hurlock’s back. Three hard thrusts of his dagger, then Raviathan hopped back before the second could pin him in an awkward position. 

An arrow flew by, missing Raviathan’s head by inches. Maker! How many of them? Wouldn’t Loghain’s army have known if the darkspawn had outflanked them? Black blood erupted from the injured hurlock’s mouth. Though the monster tried to lumber forward, its injury had it doubled over. Raviathan didn’t remember moving his blades. They flashed before him in a quick dance. A deflected parry jarred his elbow. In an instant of flurried blocks and attacks, black blood coated Raviathan’s sword. 

They were down. Dead? Raviathan’s stomach churned with the nearness of the taint. Another arrow passed a few feet away from him. Shaking his head to rid himself of shock, Raviathan tried to focus on the scene before him. Two genlocks had the high ground by the tower entrance. Two more soldiers fought three hurlocks with little success. More darkspawn charged the scaffolding to his left. The templar was there, outnumbered but the narrow paths kept him from being overwhelmed. Maybe this wasn’t a splinter army from the horde below, just a few stragglers to make chaos. 

Dead or not, the hurlocks were down. Raviathan circled behind one of the hurlocks attacking the soldier. The monster caught sight of him at the last second, but Raviathan’s blades whirled into motion. Together he and the soldier turned on the remaining two. A crude blade gutted the second soldier just before Raviathan could kill the monster. A howl of pain sang to the night, and another hurlock fell. 

With a start, Raviathan recognized the two soldiers. Rain spattered the face of the guard who had been watching over the prisoners. He had give Raviathan part of his lunch to feed the deserter. The guard lay on the ground, squinting from the rain splattering his face. Steam rose from his torn stomach. The guard looked down, his hand touching the broken tubes of his own intestines. 

Steam, Raviathan thought. In the cold, bodies steam. But he’s not dead yet. The guard blinked, his fingers trembling. He’s a dead man who hasn’t yet died. 

Heal? The templar. Try to patch him up? No time. More darkspawn were coming. No light to work by. I’m letting this man die. 

The other soldier lumbered up to the tower, a pronounced limp breaking his gait. That was the taskmaster who had yelled at the elves before Raviathan went to the Korcari Wilds. The thick beard and broken nose, the scarred armor. What was he doing here? The leg injury must have been before the hurlock got to him since he hadn’t taken damage in the fight. He hadn’t been limping before, but maybe he strained it? 

Raviathan gave himself a mental shake as he followed the taskmaster up the steps leading to the tower’s clearing. The taskmaster grunted, his body jerking twice, so hard he nearly lost his footing, but he kept going. Raviathan glimpsed an arrow shaft sticking out of the man’s side before they split to take on the genlocks. Shot twice and still fighting. How could he take the pain? 

The small genlock growled at him, a mouth of thick protruding fangs gnashing at him. Shining black eyes stared hate. Strange eyes, Raviathan thought. Alive, but eyes that held no soul. The sin of the world stared out from the wizened face. Raviathan’s dagger bit into the genlock’s neck. No soul, but the life was gone. 

Lightning split the sky. Only a second, yet that moment was seared into Raviathan’s memory. The tower loomed like a broken bone, the splintered top impaling low clouds. The taskmaster charged a hurlock, the largest Raviathan had yet seen. That shem was going to die. Raviathan knew it, knew that shem had no hope, knew the shem was racing towards his death to give everyone else that extra chance. Raviathan had hated the man earlier. 

Blocking one blow but unable to defend a second, the hurlock’s sword dove deep into the taskmaster. That man had lived near four decades, and this was his end. Whatever battles he had fought, whatever his hopes for the future or knowledge gained, they would be gone in minutes. How much was a life, and how little was it worth?

With the hurlock’s blade in the shem’s stomach, Raviathan flanked him, drove his blades in while he had the best chance. He hacked at the hurlock, the damn monstrous thing shrugging off the blows as if Raviathan were a mere nuisance. Raviathan’s blades raised again and again to little use. The taskmaster struggled, kept the hurlock from acting. The man’s stained teeth grimaced in pain, but he would not stop his last stand against the monsters. Why wouldn’t the horror die? End this torture and just die!

The taskmaster slumped, his body a great lump sodden by mud and rain. The hurlock jerked his sword free, the movement knocking Raviathan back. What was a life? Lost, Raviathan stared at the hurlock, at the horns in the monster’s helmet, at the hateful grin created by the sin of the world. What is the worth of one life? A thought screamed in Raviathan’s mind. I don’t want to die.

A sword struck clean though the hurlock’s back and into its heart. The blade flashed in the flicker of lighting, dripping with black blood but still bright. Alistair pulled his sword out with a swift jerk. He looked so tall then. Calm. 

“Are you alright?” 

Raviathan nodded, his hands shaking. He had lost all form against the hurlock. He had been like a child banging on a post with wooden swords rather than the precise fighter his mother had trained. One day ago he and Duncan had been sharing a meal by a campfire. Raviathan had never seen a darkspawn. He had still kept his vow to his wife. His secrets had been under his control. Had it only been a day?

“I’ll be okay,” he said to Alistair who was still watching him. “The Joining. I’m just tired. I’ll be fine.” 

Alistair looked like he was about to speak when two other men joined them, one wearing the robes of a mage. The soldier spoke. “We heard fighting and shouts. Do you need help?” 

“Yes,” said Alistair. “And not a moment too soon.” 

Raviathan had just gotten back to his feet when the three of them ran into the tower. He would have shouted for them to wait, but no use would have come from it. His limbs felt strange, heavy, yet he moved as if in a dream. Was this the aftereffects of adrenaline? How much more did he have to give before his body quit on him? How was Alistair so unaffected by all the fighting done today? He seemed unstoppable. Raviathan was still underestimating the mage hunter, a dangerous habit he couldn’t afford. 

Duncan. I can’t fail Duncan. 

Just as Raviathan got to the high doors, a blast sounded within. Pressured air whooshed out causing the doors to bang fully open. The three shems were lying against the wall in disarray. The circular room was divided by a hasty barrier of chairs and tables, fresh scorch marks staining the wooden furniture. More darkspawn. So they hadn’t been stragglers. They had come in from the base of the building. 

All the darkspawn were focused on the shems. Still undetected, Raviathan hid himself in shadow and crept along the barrier. Three archers stood by the far wall, and what looked like a magic using genlock was making its way towards the fallen shems. Alistair was the first to stir, his eyes still dazed but showing alarm as the genlock came forward. He was getting his shield in place when the genlock lowered its staff. It was Raviathan’s sword that struck the blow this time. Clean, right through the genlock’s throat. The monster gurgled, its hands seizing as it dropped the staff, then fell. 

Arrows flew in their direction. All three shems recovered their wits enough to scramble behind the barrier. Between Raviathan’s bow and the mage’s blasts of power, they fired at the archers. 

“The darkspawn aren’t supposed to be here,” Alistair said. 

All four men huddled down as a volley of arrows flew over the barrier. Raviathan sighted his arrow, the careful shot hitting its mark. The force of the arrow spun the hurlock back, slamming it into the wall. A blast of energy from the mage finished the thing off. Bloody useless templar. Why didn’t he carry a bow? 

With the barrier close to the main door, the darkspawn had no place to hide. Whatever caused the blast from before, this was meant to be the darkspawn’s shield. Not the best tactics on the side of the darkspawn, but Raviathan had no complaints. A few more volleys took out the remaining two hurlocks. 

Raviathan took a deep breath. His long practiced control was back, but it was a tenuous thing. He needed rest. With luck, the darkspawn hadn’t infiltrated the rest of the tower to block their progress. Luck was not his friend lately, Raviathan thought with a grimace. 

“There were problems with the tower this morning,” Raviathan said. “Maybe they thought to outflank the army? Surprise attack from behind where we’re weakest.” 

“They aren’t supposed to be capable of plans. Not sophisticated ones at least.” 

Raviathan snorted. “Those fire rocks weren’t hurled by muscle, or didn’t you notice that?” Maker’s ass. Just when he had cautioned himself not to underestimate the mage hunter, that shem showed his idiocy all over again. The templar had been a Warden for half a year now and had been at Ostagar since the battles started. How could he have learned so little in all that time? “Anyway, that doesn’t matter now. We have to get to the top.” 

“What if the signal fire wasn’t readied?”

The worry that really gnawed at Raviathan was that they were going to trap themselves. If the darkspawn were coming in from the bottom, and they were headed towards the top, there would be nowhere to retreat other than jumping out a window. If they made it to the top. That taskmaster who had treated Raviathan’s kin so poorly had given his life to see the others make it just a bit further. That courage, despite the taskmaster’s nature, weighed on him. This had to be done. 

Still, no reason to be blind to alternatives. Best to send a messenger instead of relying only on the signal. A messenger wasn’t guarantied considering the darkspawn surprise, just the opposite, but it was another chance. Glancing at the two shems, Raviathan wondered who would have the best chance. The soldiers outside hadn’t lasted long against the darkspawn, but a stray arrow would kill the mage. However, even if the mage did make it, who would listen to him? Better to send the soldier. “You. Get to Loghain. If we don’t get to the signal fire, you’re the only chance the King has. You have to tell him what happened and that he must attack immediately. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, ser.” 

“Go now.” Raviathan didn’t have time to ponder the soldier’s obedience to an elf. Instead, he turned to the mage. “Do you know a fire spell?”

“Yes. It’s a minor one.”

“Bright?”

“I can make a bright fire, yes.”

“If all else fails, that fire has to be bright enough to rival the sun. You need to make it to the top and be the signal.” 

The mage nodded. He had the soft, juvenile hairs on his jaw young shems grew to try to impress the world with their age, but he was earnest. 

“Let’s go.” 

They raced through the circular passages, slowing only to check the next room for darkspawn before continuing. One long room used as barracks made them all stop. Dead soldiers littered the floor. Not just dead, but ripped apart, their extremities tossed about as if by a spoiled child throwing a fit with rag dolls. Worse, the bodies had been played with. Raviathan hoped the soldiers had been dead when that happened. Ropes made of their own intestines tied the dead men to bunks or in strange altars made of weapons and body parts. A naked leg covered with dark hair hung drunkenly by an arm of a lighter shade, the motley of limbs spreading like a fan. Sticky blood coated the floor. “Have you ever seen this before?” 

“No,” Alistair said. “I’ve heard a few stories about the Deep Roads, but the other Wardens didn’t like to talk about them much.” 

No wonder. If there was a later, he’d have to ask Duncan about the Deep Roads. 

The mage was pale when he caught up, his eyes red from vomiting in a corner. “This place looks like the Tower. If so, there should be a stair that way so we don’t have to circle the entire floor.” 

With a nod, Raviathan followed the mage’s directions and found the smaller passage. “Let’s try to block these as best we can. Slow the darkspawn coming from below.” The tower rumbled, a vibration felt through the stone. The storm outside must be getting worse.

“Wh-what if we’re trapped in,” the mage asked. 

“If the darkspawn are coming up, it will slow them down. Maybe give us a fighting chance until the army can make it.” 

That seemed to mollify the mage. At least the man hadn’t forgotten his spine. 

“I hadn’t thought about it before, but he’s right,” Alistair said. “They’re both Tevinter construction. If that’s…” Alistair turned around, calculating with his fingers where the rooms would match. “Then the center would be through the hall above then on the right. That’ll take us to the next stair.” 

The mage nodded in agreement. If the mage and templar could agree, who was he to say no. 

More evidence of the darkspawn greeted them on the next floor. The tower had been thoroughly trashed with broken furniture and body parts turned into more of those strange altars. Another rumble shook the building. Tiny ripples from the vibration marked the last pools of blood that hadn’t dried. The thunder hadn’t been so bad before. Would the weather effect the darkspawn as it would the human armies?

“Do you know why the darkspawn do this?”

Alistair shook his head. “Not a clue. It looks like it’s for rituals, but I couldn’t say for what. Center of the tower is just there.” 

The center was more of a long oblong room that held the curve of the tower in a leftward bulge. The architects must have been drunk. A massive hole opened the floor along the room’s outer curve. Piles of rubble, from foot sized rocks to chunks of stone the size of two men, lay strewn in haphazard piles. The remaining ledge on the right was wide enough for two men to walk abreast if one did not fear heights. Though Raviathan was no judge, he thought the damage looked new. The broken stone didn’t have the worn edges that older damage would have taken on in time. 

Another shudder shook the tower. Alistair led the way across while Raviathan grabbed a few pouches left on the ground before following. Where were the darkspawn? They had left plenty of remains. They must have been running through the tower for hours. How had there been no word? 

Alistair just reached the hole when he shouted, drawing his blade. The mage blanched and backed up, his feet catching on rubble and falling against the wall. Raviathan froze when a hand as large as a pony gripped the edge of the hole. The skin was grayish blue, pebbled, the fingers ending with thick broken nails as long as Raviathan’s forearm. He froze, mind blank, as he stared at the hand. No, Maker, no, this cannot be. This can’t be real.

With a yell, Alistair’s sword swung down to cut deep into the fingers. Blood gushed, and a roar emanated that shook the stones under Raviathan’s feet. The roar punished his ears, but he could not cover them in protection. He stood there, helpless, as a second hand emerged. An elbow propped on the ledge, the monster’s horned head coming up. Alistair’s blade slashed at the beast’s face. He cut enough to show bone, then the monster punched him hard enough to send the templar flying across the room. 

A monumental effort of giant muscles pulled the ogre up. The thing wrestled with the ledge, it’s torso balancing on the floor as legs kicked the wall below to push it up. How was this real? It couldn’t be real. 

Standing for a moment, the ogre’s heavy breathing filled the room, its eyes focused on Raviathan. 

It can’t be real. This isn’t real. 

Bone and flesh melded together in the monster’s face. Split horns cleaved from the its skull, twisting upwards like the jagged roots formed by a tree planted on hard rock. Spiked armor and tatters covered arms and legs that were too large, too bulbous for the body. It lumbered in great, heavy steps. Raviathan could feel the slight vibration with each step the ogre took. It was a thing made only for killing. 

Maker, please, I don’t want to die! 

The ogre stood over him, reaching for him. It looked dead, the way its skin shriveled back to expose teeth, in the cloudy grey of soulless eyes. Raviathan felt the stink of its hot breath. 

The hand came for him, slow, and finally, Raviathan’s brain snapped into focus. Not die. I’m not going to die! He rolled to the side, away from the hand. The ogre turned with him, snarling. Raviathan found his feet, terror making his movements faster. His blades sprang out, diving into the ogre’s leg. The monster bellowed, spittle flying out in long ropes. It had also fallen out of the spell that had held them. 

Raviathan scrambled to keep to the monster’s back. It moved too fast for such a large thing, but all that bulky muscle couldn’t match the elf. Raviathan stayed to its back, his blades ready for another strike. Maker, it was big! Like trying to fight a hut. Just as Raviathan’s blades struck, a giant foot smashed into him. He hadn’t even seen the attack coming. He sailed through the air, the world a sudden blur. His chest and face burned in shocked agony. Raviathan’’s back slammed into the stone wall, the impact muffled by his armor and pack, then watched as the floor rose to meet him. His leg hit the jagged edge of a broken stone, spinning him around so he landed on his side. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt pain like this. He remembered the sharp bang of wood from his mother’s training, but not like this. Without further thought, his magic flowed into his body. The ache of bruised bone remained, but his flesh knit, the swell and ease of blood healing damage that would have taken weeks to mend. 

A flash of fire caught Raviathan’s attention away from his barely healed body. The mage and Alistair circled the ogre, attacking from two sides. The ogre’s flesh blackened and split from the long tongue of flame licking out from the mage’s staff. Alistair’s blade thrust forward into the ogre’s knee to cripple it. The ogre roared. Its head went back, the cords of its neck strained taunt. Before they were playthings. Now the monster was mad. 

With a shockingly swift twist of its torso, the ogre’s arm flew out in a sweep. It backhanded Alistair who caught the impact full on. Alistair’s armor clinked and scraped along the floor as he tumbled ungracefully, limbs flailing, sword lost. He couldn’t stop the slide, only grapple, as he started to slip over the edge. Catching a loose stone, Alistair spun enough that his legs fell over the edge, but the momentum from the hit kept him from stopping. He cried out, grasping at the rough stone. 

This was the last for the templar. The hole torn in the floor was multiple stories up, even further to the lower levels that reached into the mountain’s side. The templar was going to die. 

A cry from further in the chamber, and Raviathan saw the mage scrambling. The mage darted behind a chunk of stone, ran left as the ogre moved right, evading as a hare trying to outrace a wolf. Save the mage. The mage could be the signal. Shocked, Raviathan realized that with the templar gone, he could be the signal Duncan needed. His magic would be free. 

Only a second ticked by as thoughts raced through Raviathan’s brain. What to do? Save the mage? Have the extra help to get to the top? Take his chance now to evade the ogre? The mage could run. Just as easily die. Let a man die? Even in the slice of a second the thought went through Raviathan’s mind, he was repelled by it. The signal. If he didn’t get to the signal, the King’s army and Duncan would be overrun. Many hundreds would die then. Have to get to the signal. The darkness of night was coming for them, gleaming eyes, wicked blades, wanting blood and death. Have to get to the signal. 

One armored hand clung to the broken stone. The templar would fall to his death soon. His heavy armor would drag him down. Raviathan felt no pity, only grim satisfaction that one less mage hunter would exist. Served the bastard right. 

Raviathan got to his feet. A flash of red robe showed the mage was near the door. If he could make it out, the ogre would have a hard time following. The mage could save himself. Raviathan worried that the rest of the darkspawn that had created the altars would be further up the tower. If so, there was no way he could get to the signal. He needed help. Get the mage and run across the room. Evade the ogre. The door was too small for the monster. The ogre could break through it, but it would take time. They could keep climbing. The mage knew the tower structure. They had a chance of evading further darkspawn that way. 

Light the beacon. 

First, he had to get the mage by the ogre. Raviathan felt the panic in his chest, used it to ready himself against the ogre. He could do this. He had to. 

At a panicked cry, Raviathan glanced down to see the templar. The floor below was lit, but below that was a gaping darkness. Alistair’s eyes met his, pleading. 

No. No, I will not save this man. He hunted my kin, others like me. He is cruel. He and his raped, tortured, and killed my aunt before leaving her to rot in garbage. Let him die for his sins. I don’t have time. The ogre, the mage, I can’t save this man without being vulnerable. 

Alistair’s brown eyes, panicked. 

No! But Duncan asked me to protect him. Duncan, no, Raviathan begged in his mind. Besides, he’s too heavy. The ogre will charge, and we’ll both die. 

Watch another man die? 

Alistair’s eyes. His life, knowing he was close to death. The last hope for life in those eyes. 

An agony, like his heart was tearing in two, hit Raviathan. A last ‘no’ lingered in his mind even as he knelt by the edge, grabbed the neck of Alistair’s armor, and pulled. Damn you! Damn you, you stupid, useless, mage hunter! Alistair got another handhold. His armor scraped as he pulled himself up. Raviathan strained, his fingers locked under the collar, using his legs to pull back. You stupid fucking templar! 

As soon as Alistair’s thighs cleared the ledge, Raviathan turned to the ogre. The mage raced along the outer wall. The ogre’s claws swung out in an almost lazy swing. The attack grazed the mage, not much, but the monster’s strength was enough to spin the mage around. The mage lost his feet, deep gashes in his back, and fell to the floor. 

Rage and fear mingled in Raviathan’s blood. He charged the ogre. His blades waved, catching the ogre’s attention. Just as a monstrous hand swung, Raviathan rolled under it and back to his feet. His blade bit deep into the ogre’s thigh. 

A bellow echoed off the stone walls. When the ogre turned, Raviathan’s sword jerked out of his hands, still in the ogre’s leg. Abandoning the blade, Raviathan danced back. If only he had grabbed another sword from the remains below. Instead, he pulled a second knife. Little good a knife and defensive dagger would do against this beast, but better than his bare hands. 

Alistair ran in, feinting to the side. The beast’s head snapped in low. Its horns swung through the air. Alistair dodged back enough that the tip of one horn tore his armor but did not knock him down. Raviathan saw no blood seep from the tear so assumed the damage was superficial. 

Just then, he caught the beast’s eye trained on him. The uninjured leg bunched. Raviathan was ready this time. The leg shot out to slam him. Raviathan sidestepped, the air pressure fluttering his cape. In twin downward strokes, Raviathan plunged his short blades into the thick meat of the ogre’s leg. When he pulled the blades out, black blood spurted in pulsing streams. Had he been lucky enough to hit an artery? Hope blossomed in Raviathan’s chest as he danced back. A pool of blood formed under the darkspawn. 

A pulse of magic stunned the ogre. Only then did Raviathan see the beast’s next attack. He would have been hit by one of those jagged horns in a second had the attack not been interrupted. He hadn’t even seen it coming. Those horns would have torn him in half. 

Alistair took the brief advantage to rush in. He leapt, his shield bashing the ogre’s face while his blade plunged into the massive chest. The crunch of broken bone sounded as the beast rose up, a last spasm of muscles. In that last moment of death, the monster loomed over them all, giant and ancient as the evil that was its life. Unhurried, it giant form tipped back. Alistair rode the body as it fell with a reverberating thud of massive muscles. 

The three men gathered, all breathing heavily, to stare at the body. They had done it. They had killed this impossible thing. 

“We… we need to keep going,” Alistair said. 

Still in shock, Raviathan nodded. The templar gathered their weapons. He had to tug and jerk to get his sword and Raviathan’s out. Raviathan glanced at the mage’s back. He lifted the torn fabric to see three long wounds. Though no longer bleeding, the wounds hadn’t been healed. Long, red gouges remained in the young man’s soft skin. Whatever this mage’s talents were, healing wasn’t his strength. 

“Can you keep going?”

The mage gave him a weak nod. He was bent, in pain, leaning on his staff for support. If the templar weren’t here, I could heal this man in an instant. There was no bitterness to his thoughts though, just an acknowledgment of the situation. More than any other emotion, Raviathan felt tired. When the templar turned out to be a back stabbing mage killer who would end him outright or sell him to the Circle, Raviathan could be satisfied that he hadn’t betrayed Duncan, cold comfort though that would be. 

Presented with the hilt, Raviathan took his sword back from the templar. 

Below, Raviathan saw shadows moving in the unlit chambers. Multiple pairs of red eyes found them. They hissed, the shadows moving faster. 

“Well that wasn’t creepy,” Alistair said. 

“Bar the door. Now,” Raviathan said, the strength of the order surprising him. With the three of them pushing, they got a few of the larger chunks of rock in front of the door. At best it would give them a few extra moments. Without the need for further orders, the three hurried along the ledge. Two arrows flew from below, badly aimed shots made from desperation and chance. 

“We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

Raviathan glanced back at the young mage. He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He looked even younger now with fear giving way to hopelessness. “We still might find a defensive position at the top or a place to hole up. We’re not done yet.” He shook the boy’s shoulder. “We beat that bastard, didn’t we?” 

Though he didn’t quite smile, the boy’s mouth eased. Raviathan gave his shoulder a final squeeze then followed Alistair up the stairs. “Hold on. The darkspawn have been through here. Once the door is open, let me go first.” 

At Alistair’s questioning look, Raviathan elaborated. “I can check the room without them seeing me. Check for traps.” 

Alistair stood back, hands outstretched, content to let Raviathan take point. Raviathan was too tired to concentrate on pulling shadows, so he had to rely on the more basic methods of stealth. Thankfully, the chamber above remained empty as he padded in. 

More of the darkspawn’s mutilations decorated the room. Organs bound in a spiked alter had started shriveling, but little blood remained on the floor. The butchering must have been elsewhere, enough that little blood remained to drip or drag. How long had this been going on? How had they not heard a word of this other than there was some minor trouble? 

A dog’s squeal of pain brought Raviathan’s attention back to the present. Peering around the archway to the next room, Raviathan saw a pack of genlocks surrounding a cage. More cages lined the outer curve of the wall. The mabari inside growled, all watching as the genlocks took turns stabbing inside the cage that had their attention. Raviathan felt sick as another squeal echoed along the stone walls. The altars the darkspawn created didn’t seem real to him, too strange and out of place, but this suffering hit him hard. 

One of the mabari spied him, rising to all fours. He looked at Raviathan, to a latch in the middle of the room, and back to Raviathan. The latch connected all the cage gates by a series of pulleys. Maker, the mabari were smart. Were they smart enough not to attack him? A pitiful whine made Raviathan’s mind up for him. 

Darting out, Raviathan raced for the lever. When he was halfway, he heard the grunt followed by a yell from an inhuman throat. More noises followed, their sounds making Raviathan’s skin crawl as if it wanted to leap off his body. Fear and disgust shivered through him. He pulled the lever, heard the bray of angry dogs, and wished for the hundredth time he did not have darkspawn blood in him. The sin of the world inside him, and there would never be an escape. Trapped, the rest of his life trapped with their sin. 

He spun in time to catch a genlock’s sword between the hilt and blade of his dagger, swept the darkspawn to his left using the genlock’s momentum against it. Raviathan’s sword bit deep into the genlock’s exposed side. The sin of the world would die one monster at a time. 

Howls rang out as limbs ripped away from bodies. Black blood splattered the floor as one dog flung a stubby arm newly released from a shoulder socket. Another mabari whipped her head back and forth in a frenzy, ripping out a chunk of genlock flank. 

A spark of mage energy hit a genlock. Raviathan saw Alistair charge through the arch, sword at the ready, the mage behind him readying another attack. Swords and teeth flashed, and with a last thrust of Alistair’s sword into the back of a genlock, the fight was over. 

The mage knelt by the injured mabari, doing what he could to help the tortured animal. The rest of the pack looked to Raviathan. It was the strangest feeling to have these hyper intelligent dogs waiting for his orders. 

“Clear out the rest of the floor, then guard.” 

Even eerier, the dogs obeyed. Brown, black, and grey heads turned then trotted down the hallway. The only sounds in the room were the ticks of their claws on the stone and the labored breathing of the injured mabari. Raviathan didn’t know what he had been expecting: a woof of acknowledgment of the order, or confusion as the dogs stared at the odd elf, or straight out disobedience since he was not their master, but this quiet following of orders unnerved him after an already exhausting day. 

“You two, follow the dogs and help. I’ll see to the injured one.” 

Alistair huffed at the order, but he left. That was what Raviathan had expected from the dogs. 

“I have some healing magic.” 

“Save it for when we need you. I can patch up the dog.” 

The mage gave the dog’s neck a pat, but he followed the rest with only one backward glance. At the sounds of barks and growls, the mage hurried on to join the melee. 

Raviathan knelt by the dog. The mage hadn’t been able to stop the bleeding, only slow it. Exposed ribs glared and flaps of flesh hung in wide strips. One of the dog’s eyes had been stabbed out. Magic could heal damage, but it couldn’t recreate what was lost. If the mabari lived, its eye would always be gone. Monsters. 

After cleaning out the wounds, all the while murmuring comfort to the dog, Raviathan held one flap of skin closed. The templar was still down the hall judging by the sound of fighting. Focusing, Raviathan’s heart of magic flared out at his will, his brilliant inner sun’s power arching out to touch the animal. The dog whimpered and whined as each successive wound knit closed. The mabari struggled to turn its head to lick Raviathan’s hand. 

“Easy, sweetie.” He moved his hand so the mabari could continue to lick while Raviathan finished. He helped the mabari stand on shaking legs so he could wrap bandages around the animal’s middle. The wounds were mostly healed but still tender, but more importantly the bandages would hide the healing magic from the templar. 

“Stay here and rest.” The mabari was having none of his orders and followed by his side. Raviathan couldn’t stop a smile. “Okay then. But try to look more injured.” 

The mabari cocked his head at the order, but he limped a little as he walked. Maker, these animals were too smart. He gave the mabari a scratch behind the ear as they left to find the others. Standing, the mabari’s shoulder was just higher than his hip. The strength of the animal was incredible. Raviathan watched the massive muscles move under the dog’s fine fur. This was the animal of a king. 

As Raviathan rounded the corridor, he saw Alistair’s sword thrust take out the last hurlock. The dogs were savaging darkspawn corpses with two holding down the hurlock Alistair had just killed. The mage leaned against the wall to rest, but he straightened in surprise to see the mabari with Raviathan. 

“Elfroot concoction,” Raviathan said as explanation for the healed animal. 

“How are darkspawn here?” Alastair asked, wincing at the viciousness of the mabari. 

“Through the lower levels, obviously,” Raviathan said. “Why are they here though? There aren’t enough of them that this would be an attack against the army’s rear. It’s more like chaos. They can’t know there were plans for this tower, can they?”

Alistair shook his head. “They aren’t supposed to be that smart.” 

“They’re smart enough to plot and engage in battles. We know that, but they can’t have spies. How would they know this tower’s importance?” 

Alistair looked troubled by the idea. “It… well, it doesn’t matter right now. We still need to get the signal lit.” 

Raviathan whistled to get the mabari’s attention, their heads snapping up, ready for orders. “Let’s keep going then.” 

A few dogs licked the injured mabari’s muzzle as they crowded around the stairs. When Raviathan opened the door, the growl of a darkspawn echoed from beyond. The mabari flowed around Raviathan as if he were a stone in a river as they raced within. The howl of darkspawn followed in the mabari wake. 

“Useful set of friends you managed to pick up,” Alistair said. 

Too bad I kept the unuseful one, Raviathan thought with a sidelong glare at the templar. 

With the mabari pack on their side, their progress through the floor was much faster. Good thing too as even more darkspawn congregated the further along they went. They lost two dogs on the way, one to an ambush of archers and the second to the sword of a hurlock. 

“Last floor,” Alistair huffed when they got to the last room. 

“Should be an open chamber,” added the mage. 

A bellow sounded from below, loud enough to challenge the storm’s thunder that vibrated the walls. 

“Another of those… that huge thing.” The mage paled, panic making him shake. Beads of sweat dotted his upper lip. 

“There’s no way those ogres can fit through the doorways. It’s going to have to blast open every floor to get here. Come on. Once the signal’s lit, we’ll bar the way up here. We’ll have a defensible stand.” 

As Raviathan led the way to the stairs, he heard the mage mutter, “Reminds me of the Harrowing.” He glanced back to see Alistair put a hand on the mage’s shoulder. What was the Harrowing? He ignored the sense of unease he felt at the templar’s show of support to the mage. 

As was their habit, the dogs ran forth into the chamber above. Raviathan had only a second to register the fire boiling over his head before he was flung back into the chamber. Sound and pressure deafened him as he flew. An image imprinted in his brain. Alistair and the mage below him, their stunned faces almost comical as they looked up at him. The smell of burning dogs. The lick of flames along the door arch, leaving behind scorch marks. 

The floor slammed up to smack him, leaving his head ringing in shock. Through the haze of pain, he saw a blurred vision of Alistair’s armor and mage robes running up a darkened path. The world rang at him, pounding at him with such force he couldn’t think, only feel. Pain came in waves of intensity. Beneath the pain was the need to vomit. 

A flat, wet surface moved repeatedly along his face. It took Raviathan a moment to realize it was the mabari he had healed. Focus. Warmth spread through his body as his healing magic took over, the magic growing stronger as his brain righted. Concussion. Raviathan sat up with great care. His balance was returning, but the tower still tilted sickeningly. Deep measured breaths. He wrapped an arm around the mabari’s shoulder to keep steady as his magic continued to flow. Alright. I’m going to be alright. 

Raviathan got to his feet. He was steadier with each step towards the final floor. Battle. He could hear them fighting. Hurry. The signal. Duncan and the king below. Have to light the signal. 

The charred bodies of dogs lay in unmoving heaps. Cracked blackened skin still smoked. Raviathan thought of the mabari he had burnt back in Denerim, and he felt a stab of guilt. 

A genlock stood in the center of the circular room. He was larger than the rest, stockier, and carried a mage’s staff. Most darkspawn wore scant bits of armor, but this one had a full set of ancient, gnarled pieces. A blast of entropic energy hit Alistair in the chest, sending the templar back off his feet. The genlock wheeled around to the mage, another ugly burst of energy coming from its staff. The mage returned fire, but he was no match for the genlock. The genlock took the strike, growling at the pain but remained unfazed. The mage crumpled to the floor, gasping. 

Raviathan ran on silent feet. If he could get to the genlock while it was distracted, a blade could end this fight. Alistair, the idiot, yelled a warning. The genlock turned to Raviathan with a growl. It lowered its staff, dark energy gathering around the blackened wood at its tip. Before the energy could be focused, Raviathan’s sword arched down for a blow. The genlock countered with its staff, but the blow disrupted the spell and sent it back. Raviathan followed close. An aggressive attack could give the others time to recoup and mount their own attacks. 

The genlock’s staff whipped around, hitting Raviathan on the leg with a paralyzing blow. He fell to one knee, shocked by the strength of the monster. The face of the monster up close, full of hatred yet soulless, sent a new wave of fear and disgust through Raviathan. Its shriveled face like black, moldy fruit with holes for a nose, long yellow fangs jutting out in chaotic directions from a protruding maw, a pointed tongue too long and dripping with decay, but nothing matched its eyes. Black and holding the sin of the world. 

Raviathan didn’t want to fight it or even touch it. He wanted nothing more than to get away from this thing that would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. Why, Maker? Why did you do this to us? 

His dagger struck out at the face full of thorns and decay. He felt the bile rise in his throat as he did so. A sharp whack of the staff sent his hand aside. Raviathan rolled to the side, tried to get to his feet, but had to dodge again when the staff swung out. 

A howl from the genlock rang out. Raviathan scrambled to his feet to see the injured mabari savaging the genlock’s neck. 

“Light the signal,” he yelled at Alistair. Raviathan’s torso twisted as he readied the force to send his blade into the genlock. A burst of magic sent him and the mabari back. Raviathan tried to keep his feet, but the force unbalanced him. Instead he rolled with the momentum and let it carry him back to his feet. The genlock’s neck spurted with black blood. Its hand covered its stubby neck. The monster turned to the mabari. The dog was scrambling to his feet, readying for another charge. 

Raviathan yelled as the staff lowered. Red lines of magic script laced around the dog. The glow of magic lit the room in an ominous red. The dog let out a last whine before he fell. 

The room blurred as Raviathan raced forward. He didn’t think, didn’t plan. That poor, tortured, half blind dog would never move again. Raviathan’s sword struck the defending staff. His foot kicked out next, slamming into the genlock’s knee. He heard a sickening crunch. The staff tangled with his legs, knocking him off balance again. The genlock’s face twisted, its grotesquery of a mouth gnashing at him. Raviathan fell with the attack, flowing with it, using the genlock’s momentum. Grabbing the monster’s staff, Raviathan twisted with his back to the ground to send the genlock over him and crashing on the floor. Raviathan flung the staff against the wall far out of reach. 

In a quick motion, Raviathan drew a knife from his boot. He rolled on top of the genlock, his arm raised to force the blade deep. The genlock’s hands came up in a desperate attempt to defend. Magic thudded into Raviathan. His body trembled in sudden weakness. All the fighting from the day hit him at once, and the adrenaline that kept him going drained out to leave him shaky. 

No, you bastard! Gravity did most of the work as the blade sank down into the genlock’s neck. Raviathan worked the blade with trembling muscles, pushing and pulling it back and forth with the weight of his body, watching as more thick blood gurgled out. Whatever force animated the monster left. The sin of the world left its eyes. The eyes were black, shiny as beetles, but nothing more than that. Hate left its mark in the monster’s face, and the blood remained a poisonous ooze, but the thing was dead. 

Raviathan sat next to the corpse. All he could do was sit with his head lowered and breathe. A fire blazed hot and bright from the chimney. Raviathan could feel the blaze feeding on oil and bursting on the roof above them. As the spell wore off, so did the induced weakness, but he wasn’t ready to get to his feet. 

The mage, leaning heavily on his staff, limped to the middle of the room. He spared a sorrowful glance at the dead mabari before looking to the two Wardens. Alistair got to his feet, the stiffness of his movements signaling his own injuries. He was about to speak when the mage gave two great jerks then fell back, two arrows sticking from his chest. 

Alistair and Raviathan turned to see the hurlocks. One had its next arrow raised to fire while more streamed in from behind. 

Raviathan tried to get to his feet, his weak muscles unwilling to move, shaking with the effort, when blackness fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, it took forever to get “Plans and Tactics” finished! 
> 
> I’ve had some pretty major setbacks this year though. Let’s see… carbon monoxide poisoning, badly sprained ankle, three neck injuries, moved (and god, it took a lot of energy to get the old house prepared for sale, and I am so not missing the place), helped move a friend (which is how I got the sprained ankle), and three months without my laptop because the company dragged their heels on fixing it (mutters curses at them), lots of issues with my brain chemistry being out of sorts though I now have a doctor who is finally helping me, and most recently a very painful breakup—lots of waking up with swollen eyelids from crying on both sides. 
> 
> But don’t worry. I keep bouncing back. So why am I telling you all this? I know lots of stories are abandoned. Sort of the nature of the beast with fanfiction. However, I’m not quitting on this story. It may take an obscenely long time to get it all published, but I’ll keep working on it even if I need time off for real life monster slaying. 
> 
> To all the readers who have made it this far: I truly, sincerely thank you. I know it’s not easy to keep up with a story that’s published so intermittently. You’re support keeps me coming back when I’m down and completely off my game. Without your support, I might continue to poke at this story, but I wouldn’t keep publishing. Without you, there’s no point to me being here.


	34. Crossroads – The Last Light

“How is he?” Alistair’s raw voice croaked when Flemeth left the hut. Though less sane than Morrigan, the crone was preferable to the mean little git who had disappeared back into the little hut. He’d take insane over mean most days. The cold of early morning made him shiver, but he didn’t mind that. Not now. The constant mist that hovered like a miasma kept the sun from touching the land. The ceaseless dreary dark of the swamp depressed him. As it should be, he thought. All dead. The worst pain of all was Duncan. For the first time he had something of a family, people who cared for him, and that was all gone now. All he had left, his one hope, had been lying near death for days now. 

“He’ll be well enough. You’re awfully concerned for one you’ve known for such a short time.” Her smirk had the mean of a cat watching an interesting insect. 

Alistair crouched down by the lake then held his aching head. The last thing he needed now was some cackling witch who’d just as soon turn him into a toad. Most of the time he wished they’d just leave him alone to his pain. He didn’t want to be reminded of anything else, least of all witches. “They’re all dead. He’s the only one left.” 

“Humph. So he is your guiding light then,” she said preoccupied. “Fitting.” The witch always put him off. Her moods changed faster than the early spring weather. “He is a hard one to read… as well he should be. I only get bits and pieces, but his path with you is clearer if you choose that road.” 

“Path?” Alistair asked absently. Greagoir was gone. And Marcus. And Levine. They had teased him, sparred with him, laughed with him. They had teased him for a month, calling him the Chantry Virgin. After finding out how true that statement was, Marcus had made jovial quest to the Red Light District to get their newest brother laid. His words. Alistair had protested as they force marched him through the streets, and he blushed so furiously when the hard eyed, half dressed women called to him that the questing Wardens gave up and decided to spend the night drinking at a tavern instead. He had nursed a pint of beer all night and giggled uncontrollably as they swapped stories and told jokes. All dead.

“Choose that one and he will betray you and yet not betray you, again and again,” she said, gazing at nothing. Or maybe it was the shadows of the Fade she watched. She was like a cat that stared at some odd spot in the air as if she could see something that was invisible to everyone else. “Only when you understand what he is will the cycle end. What will happen after that, no one knows yet. Even I will be interested in what becomes of him at that point.” She cackled then. “If you live long enough.” 

It almost didn’t matter. He didn’t care. Her riddles meant nothing to him, but a little angry part of himself that had caused him trouble as a child looked up. “What does that mean?” 

“Exactly what I said,” she said, laughing in her own insane way. She spoke in a strangely smooth yet hoarse voice like a woman who had too much drink in her life comforting a child. “He grants the heart’s desires. He is doing this for a few others, and now that he is unprotected, more and more will come to tax him. You will be another if you can keep him close enough.” She started to laugh again. “He is a double edged sword, that one. Not that you’ll understand that, thick as you are.” 

Let her ramble. Crazy witch. He knelt, leaning against the ruin of a statue to look at the mosquito breeding ground. There was the occasional disturbance of the dark water’s surface as an eel came up to nibble something. Eels and mosquito eggs. They were better company than the witches. The lichen and mud covered stone he leaned against had probably once been white. There were ruins scattered all over the swamp. The first time they had travelled through here with Jory and Daveth, also dead, he had wondered what the domed building half buried in a lake had been used for. It was like no architecture he had seen before. Now they were just scattered broken stones, and he couldn’t care less about the statue of a headless woman he leaned against. 

He glanced to his side to find a stone to skip across the pond only to find Flemeth’s leering face inches from him. She looked positively demonic in the low light, the shadows of her craggy face deeper while only her eyes and teeth gleamed. He let out a high shriek, kicking back from the visage. He lay sprawled on the earth feeling his heart hammer away as the witch watched him like a crouched gargoyle. “You are not the first fair outcast princeling to visit me with a dark rebel by your side.” 

Alistair stared at the weird woman. “You know who I am?” 

“Isn’t that obvious,” she said, almost flirtatiously. “You resemble him quite a bit you know. Not as fair but perhaps a bit wiser.” She crawled to him then, looking too much like a giant spider with the face of an old woman. He scooted back with his eyes fixed on hers. Had she changed or was it just the shadows? Prophesies 

The leer turned to regret and a deep sorrow he would have never guessed the witch was capable of. “I warned him. His dark rebel would betray him if he kept him close, each time worse than the last.” Alistair didn’t know what to say to that so he stayed silent. Dark rebel. Did she mean Loghain? Breaking into a chuckle, the witch patted his cheek. “Oh do not worry lad. Sometimes things have a way of turning out like they’re supposed to.” 

She left then to wander about the swamps. Good riddance, Alistair thought as he watched her back retreat into the thick twisted woods. How much longer was he going to be stuck with them? He got up, brushing dirt off his butt and legs. When finished, he stayed slumped over. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so miserable. Eels and mosquitoes in a dismal, foggy swamp. And witches. Mean, insane witches. The cold never left him. His hands, feet, and nose were always numb. What would the darkspawn do to… he didn’t want to think about what they would do to Duncan’s corpse. After seeing what the darkspawn did in the tower to the bodies… no. Their deaths were bad enough, but he wanted to think about that rather than what to do next. The future was a grey nothingness, formless, and he had no idea what to do. Every time he tried, his thoughts all descended into chaos. 

There was no love lost between them, but Cailan was still his half brother. They had avoided each other at Ostagar. Alistair had been more than happy to focus on his duties and find solace in the Wardens’ company. They were his true brothers. But… Cailan dead. And Loghain! How could that monster do this? That mean old bastard deserved the gallows. He shouldn’t even be beheaded as fitted a noble. Give him the death of any common murderer. Murderer. That bastard had murdered hundreds of men and women. Soldiers sworn to service. Wardens. His own king. Duncan. Alistair thought of the brutality of Duncan’s death. It must have hurt. How long had it taken? Had he suffered? His body. Duncan deserved better. They all did. Alistair was ready to put Loghain’s head on a pike to rot. 

“See? Here is your friend now,” Flemeth said. Alistair was getting really sick of the witch’s habit of appearing and disappearing. “You worry too much, young man.” 

Alistair turned to the hut’s entrance to see the elf come out looking a little pale but otherwise whole enough. He wanted to weep in relief. “Oh thank the Maker you’re alive.” 

As relived as Alistair was, the elf didn’t seem to notice and just kept up the distance he had maintained since they met. “Yes,” he said, his soft spoken voice even more subdued, so at odds with the depth and command he could use when he wished. The elf looked away, shifting in unease. “Thank you Flemeth. Morrigan told me how you saved us.” 

“It was no trouble lad.” Now she acts all normal, Alistair grumped to himself. Nooo, Rav doesn’t get the creepy swamp witch routine. He gets the let’s have tea and crumpets version. And if I told him how crazy she is, he wouldn’t believe me. “But now that you are well, decisions must be made.” 

The elf bit his lips, eyes downcast. “All the Grey Wardens are dead?” 

“Yes, lad,” she said gently. Alistair’s jaw set at the unfairness of it. All he got the last few days was mocked or stupid riddles. Not that he wanted their sympathy, but he was the one who knew the Wardens. They were his friends who had been betrayed. 

“Then the responsibility falls to us, doesn’t it.” He looked at Alistair, and Alistair was again impressed with the elf’s large eyes that gleamed bright even in the gloom. 

There was an otherness about elves that haunted him. When they had been in the Wilds to get darkspawn blood and the treaties, Alistair caught himself staring at the elf. Part of it was that he hadn’t seen many elves, and that alone made for interest. The few messengers and servants at Ostagar had fascinated him, and he wanted to get to know them better, but they were so skittish. His few awkward attempts at conversation had only garnered stares and polite requests for the job he wanted them to do. They were so beautiful though. Slight, slender creatures that looked too delicate for the work they did, too fine for the heavy labor they were forced to do. Alistair would have been happy just to be around them, especially when they sang at night. Eyes with jewel bright colors flashed brighter than fire at dawn and twilight. 

The elf bit his lips again. “The Blight must be ended.” 

“The Blight,” Alistair spat. That subject snapped him out of his reverie. “Loghain must be brought to justice. It’s because of him all the others are gone. Without the Grey Wardens what hope do we have?” Anger rose from the pain. “The King and Grey Wardens had been winning every battle so far. We could have stopped the Blight if he hadn’t betrayed us. Now? Any hope we had of defeating the Blight is gone.” 

“How do we contact the rest of the Grey Wardens?” 

Alistair shrugged, falling back into despair. “Cailan,” his voice broke. He didn’t know his half brother well at all, had only talked to him once as a child and had been ignored in favor of Eamon’s sword collection. Even in the camp the two almost never saw each other. Once or twice their eyes met, but nothing was said. 

Alistair had seethed seeing Cailan with the rest of the Wardens. He already had their father’s love. Watching Cailan ride with the other Wardens had turned his heart as if his golden brother was trying to steal them away as well. Even as a child Alistair was too honest with himself to say Cailan had stolen their father’s attention or the privileged life of a prince. What claims could a bastard make? But the Wardens were his, and Cailan had no rights to them, parade around as he might. Alistair had made his emotional tantrum, and Duncan had been calm and understanding. He had made sure Alistair knew the Wardens were his brothers above all others, and that sacrifices had to be made for political support. 

In the end Alistair was glad he had an anonymous life. What Cailan had, he didn’t want. He was glad he wasn’t influenced by their indiscreet father or spoiled by privilege as Cailan so obviously was. He didn’t like attention either. Just let him be one of the fellows, a soldier and one of the brothers, and he was happy. The one time he had to lead a group of Wardens on an exercise to test his ability, the most senior Warden had to take over before they were even halfway through. Alistair had become flustered, one mistake leading to another, and he had lost his head entirely. His Warden brothers had laughed it off afterwards, but Duncan only shrugged saying it was inconsequential, that he would gain confidence in time. 

“Cailan sent for reinforcements from Orlais,” Alistair continued, still feeling hopeless. Whatever he felt for his half brother, Cailan hadn’t deserved that betrayal. He had supported the Grey Wardens, as Duncan would have reminded him. “But Loghain hates the Orlesians. I expect he’s turned them back from the border.” Anger rose again. “That bastard has crippled us! I don’t get it. Why would he do such a thing? The Blight will now roll unchecked across Ferelden. Whatever his faults, he’s always been a patriot. Why would he allow this kind of damage to his own country?” 

Flemeth scoffed. “Do you think he is the first man to betray his king or seek power? I thought you thick lad but not so naïve.” 

Alistair rounded on the witch as tears started flooding out again. “But they’re all dead! For no reason. It’s senseless. Completely senseless. He gains nothing. And I’ve… I’ve lost everything.” 

The witch remained unimpressed by the tantrum. “So what do you intend to do?” 

He was no good at this. Where do you even start with something like that? “Expose his crimes? Arl Eamon was Cailan’s uncle. He would never stand for something like this.” He looked at the elf with a forlorn sort of hopefulness. “Maybe we can go to him?” 

The elf bit his lips again, putting his head down to consider. He shook his head, and Alistair felt the little thread of hope start to slip away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Why not? Eamon is an honorable man. I know him. He can call a Landsmeet, reveal Loghain’s crimes. And he was Cailan’s uncle.” 

The elf didn’t look at him as he spoke in a low, measured voice. “Loghain was an honorable man and practically raised Cailan as a son,” he said, and Alistair got the feeling he was being accused of something though he was damned if he knew what. “But it isn’t just that. Loghain is a teyrn and Cailan’s most trusted adviser and the Hero of Ferelden. You said it yourself that he’s considered a patriot. Even you can’t understand his motives because he doesn’t have anything to gain by destabilizing the nation in a time of crisis. What evidence would we be able to give to counter his influence or word? We didn’t see the battle ground or his reason to quit the field, and I doubt Flemeth would want to act as a witness.” The witch cackled. The elf eyed her, but Alistair couldn’t read his expression. Damn if what he said didn’t make sense though. “Even if she did it for the fun of it, the lords won’t take her seriously. Even if the arl wanted to help us, he would most likely be dismissed as grieving for the loss of his nephew and grasping at straws. Besides, Loghain isn’t the priority. The Blight is.” 

“The Blight?” Alistair nearly choked. “We’re supposed to end the Blight? Just the two of us? How? We’ve no army.” 

The bright eyes, shimmering like moonlight on crystalline water, studied the swamp. “We have those treaties.”

“Now there’s a smart lad,” Flemeth said. 

“No,” Alistair groaned. “They’re probably locked away in a chest surrounded by an army of darkspawn. Or… they’re with…” he couldn’t finish. Just the thought of what those monsters would do to Duncan’s… it was too hideous. He couldn’t even think it. 

“Um…” the elf said, taking off his pack to pull out a steel cylinder. “Actually, Duncan left these with me.” 

“See?” said the crone. “Not all is lost. These treaties compel the Dalish elves, dwarves of Orzammar, and the mages of Kinlock Hold to give aid during a Blight. You have armies at your disposal.” 

“It would be a start,” the elf said, watching Alistair carefully. There was something so strange about those large eyes and how they flashed. Brilliant turquoise, too bright for the gloom of the swamp. Other than Tamriel, who liked to be left alone, Alistair had never been up close to an elf for so long. Candlelight would make even Tamriel’s dark eyes flash like a cat’s. 

Shaking his head, Alistair tried again to get his thoughts in working order. With exhaustion or mourning dulling him, Alistair had a harder time forming thoughts. It was like the river of his thoughts froze, the water becoming sluggish under a white stillness. He must look a right idiot to the elf. He wanted to hold onto his anger at Loghain, but the elf was offering him a path forward. 

Had this been what the witch talked about when she said if he chose this path? A path that would end the Blight? Betray me and not betray me until I understand what he is. He’s an elf. That’s obvious enough. So… I don’t understand what elves are? That’s ridiculous. Well… maybe that’s ridiculous. This elf had Duncan’s favor, a thought that sent a stab of dull pain into Alistair’s chest, but then that also meant Duncan had trusted him with the treaties. Take away one thing but then give another? Did that mean that elves were naturally treacherous? That seemed even more ridiculous. Stupid half riddles. The witch was mad to be sure, so why was he still even thinking about this? 

They were both watching him, the elf with the same guarded expression he had for everyone who was not Duncan. Alistair wondered if he had been staring at the elf. Of course he was. How long had he been staring? No wonder the witch called him thick. “So… can we do this? Stop the Blight?” 

Raviathan rubbed his forehead. “I doubt it’ll be as easy as that, but it’s a start.” He looked over at Flemeth, and Alistair was struck by the fact that the elf and witch had a more companionable relationship than he did with the elf. The whole thing was just bloody unfair. “Flemeth, you’ve done so much for us already. I hate to ask, but we need some rations and help getting north.” 

“That I may be able to help you with,” she said, smiling her crone’s smile at the hut. 

Morrigan came out then as if on cue. “The stew is ready mother. Shall we have two guests for the eve, or none,” she asked showing a clear preference for the latter. 

“They must be on their way,” Flemeth replied. Alistair was partially relieved to be leaving the witches and discomforted at the prospect of spending the coming evening in the wilds. Not only were there still darkspawn about, though they were all at a distance, the swamp was cold and dangerous. “And you’ll be going with them.” 

Alistair’s stomach sank. 

“Such a shame,” Morrigan said smiling coldly at Alistair, then turned to her mother sharply as the words penetrated. “What!?” 

Alistair would have smirked had he not felt the same.

The crone started to cackle, her toothy grin showing old teeth with black gums. “You heard me. At least you still have ears.” 

No, no, no. Not good. So not good. And Morrigan was clearly affronted at being cast out too. “But mother, I’m not ready. I don’t even know…” 

“Quiet,” the crone said with the sharpness of a splitting branch. “You’ve been itching to get out of this swamp for years. Here’s your chance.” 

No wonder even Morrigan took orders from the crone. There was a threat underlying the old witch’s words that Alistair felt to his bones, and for all her cracked up half riddles, there was power there too. When he first met her, Alistair was ready to laugh. This was the dreaded witch that had Daveth in such a fit? Raviathan had been polite and respectful from the onset. The elf had garnered a reputation for being belligerent in the one day he was at Ostagar, but had he sensed something more in the old witch than Alistair had? 

Maybe if Alistair tried some tact, like the elf had, he could get them out of taking the young witch. “Um. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but she’s an apostate. That’s… fine, in the wilds. But once we’re in a city, won’t she add to our problems?” 

Flemeth’s eyes narrowed at him, and she crossed her arms. “If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, maybe I should have left you on that tower.” 

Oh, he was no good at this. “Point taken,” he said as if the words had to be dragged from his mouth. 

What he didn’t expect was Raviathan’s hard look. For the first time since he left the hut, Raviathan was looking at him directly and had shifted so he was between him and Morrigan. It was subtle, but Alistair caught Flemeth’s look of approval at the elf. “Alistair is a templar,” Raviathan said, and again, Alistair felt like he was being accused, but the old witch simply cackled, her dark eyes fixed on him. Everything about that witch was wrong. “Will you turn her in?”

It was almost a dare the way the elf said it. “N-no,” Alistair said flummoxed. “I didn’t intend that at all. I… I wasn’t even a templar really. Just, there will be other templars. And… it’s not exactly like she blends in.” 

Morrigan snorted, and Alistair gave her a dark look. You know it too, witch. “Now, Morrigan,” Flemeth soothed, “go pack. You’ve not much time.” The young witch’s pretty plump mouth pouted, but she went back to the hut without further comment. “And you, Grey Warden,” she said addressing Raviathan. “I give you that which is most precious to me. If any harm should come to her…” 

“I understand,” Raviathan said solemnly. “As long as she remains with us, I will do all that I can to protect her.” 

A shadow passed over the witch’s face, but the reason for it Alistair couldn’t guess. She stood in shock as if the elf had slapped her. Wasn’t that what she wanted? Her daughter’s protection? All at once, the crone started to laugh, laugh from her belly, her head thrown back in glee. “W-well! Can’t say I wasn’t warned!” 

At least this time the elf looked uneasy. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood by the lake watching whatever elves watched, the hazy sun or eels, Alistair couldn’t say. Maybe elves could glimpse into the Fade for all he knew. It would explain why their eyes had that odd shine to them. Should he say something? Alistair thought about what he might talk to the elf about, but then it just didn’t seem to matter. 

Did Duncan’s final moments hurt? If only he could have been there to protect Duncan, maybe then the warrior could have gotten away. Duncan would know what to do now. If only he had been there instead of that fool’s errand in the tower. It made no difference whether they lit the signal fire or not. Damn Loghain! If he could, he’d strangle the traitor with his own bare hands. So many good men dead. 

With a numb half awareness, Alistair realized the elf and witch were talking. And leaving. I will avenge you, Duncan. I swear it. If I ever get the chance, Loghain will pay for what he did.


	35. Crossroads – Searching for Direction

Raviathan woke stiff and coughing in the hazy pink of dawn just before the sun rose. Moss hung from grey twisted trees, their naked winter limbs made the swamp seem more like a bog, a dead place. Rather than the noisy life swamps normally teemed with, everything here was grey and wet and dismal. The fog that cloaked the damp earth had coated him with a thick layer of mist as well. Between his sweat, the bog mist, and blood, Raviathan felt dirtier than he had ever been in his life. From the air to his armor, everything felt heavy.

After the endless haze, Raviathan wondered if the whole world had been swallowed by this dreary fog. Morrigan had been helpful in scrounging some food, mostly bitter roots or the occasional gamy squirrel, but rations were running low. The sun was so weak he couldn't be sure of the direction they traveled, though according to Alistair and Morrigan they were on the other side of the horde and should reach Lothering by noon. Progress often stalled, however, as they had to backtrack and take circuitous routes to avoid the darkspawn, Morrigan using a grotesque mixture of fermented darkspawn and animal blood to divert the attention of scouts. 

Darkspawn stragglers and weather weren't their only problems. Aside from starving wolves, Morrigan cheerily pointed out the poisonous snakes that hung heavy and sluggish in the tree boughs. They were probably huddled in the ground now until the sun's meager light touched the outer mist. Raviathan's first lesson in wilderness survival had been to step on logs and look over instead of just hopping to the other side. The witch had smirked at him for that mistake, but Alistair hadn't even noticed as Raviathan had hopped in shock and nearly fell over. When they cooked the three foot snake for lunch, the templar had eaten with the ponderous chewing of a cow as he stared at the smoking fire. The meat could have been dog or darkspawn for all the shem cared.

His eyes itched from tiredness. Worse, Raviathan thought he'd never get the decaying smell of swamp out of his nose. Wet garbage that was left on its own and became slimy had that kind of smell, but even that was not as pervasive as the swamp rot stench. The fire made of wet wood smoked most of the night and was only a memory now. Fire or not, the numbness never left Raviathan. He sat up slowly and pulled the bits of moss out of his hair. After a few more coughs, he rubbed his arms and looked about.

Morrigan had turned into a bird, a woodpecker if he guessed the flash of color right, and took to the low branches during her watch. He didn't see her now, not that spotting a single bird was easy. For all he knew, she could have changed form just to tease them. Her magic fascinated him. His aunt had never told him about shapechangers. Perhaps it was rare enough that she didn't know of its existence.

Alistair was still rolled up on his side with his back to the fire. Raviathan glared at the still form. He hadn't wanted to press the man, not when he seemed about ready to burst into tears at any minute, but Raviathan needed answers. Half of what Raviathan said at Flemeth's hut had been to keep Alistair's spirits up. There was no way the two of them would be able to do anything on their own, reluctant witch to help them or not.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, Raviathan pushed his stiff muscles so he could sit up. A little movement would help warm him, but right now he felt stuck as if he was struggling through mud. He carefully picked his way outside of camp to relieve his bladder. That templar was always watching him, and right now he could use a little privacy. He couldn't help Morrigan, but hopefully she was elsewhere. He wished he could do more than just empty his bladder, but the diet of astringent swamp roots and hard tack stuck in his intestines. Dirty, stiff, and obstructed, Raviathan made his miserable way back to camp.

Raviathan rubbed his hands to warm them then pulled his backpack closer so he could review the treaties in more detail as he had most mornings while Alistair slept. His eyes tightened in cold annoyance as the templar pawed at his nose and mumbled in his sleep. Out of any others who could possibly have survived, it had to be that templar. Raviathan sighed in frustration. He had been the one to make sure that templar had survived, too. Only yourself to blame, Rav.

So far the Orlesian Wardens could be counted out, though it was only conjecture at this point if they had been turned away. There had to be some way to contact the other Wardens. Maybe the Orlesian Wardens couldn't help directly if Loghain was blocking the passes, but a small party of three might find passage to Orlais. Morrigan could with her magic. They could warn the Wardens of what was happening, gather forces from other countries. If nothing else, they had the experience Raviathan was sorely lacking. If not Orlais, the Nevarra and the Free Marches weren't too far away.

Otherwise, they held the treaties for the Dalish, the Circle Mages, and the dwarves of Orzammar. Duncan had said the treaties were a formality, but with the Grey Wardens gone the paper took on new urgency. Strange how a few simple sheets of parchment held such power. With these in his hands, armies would form. Men and women would be pledged to service. They would leave their homes behind, their children. It seemed too grand to Raviathan to be real, like the shock of meeting Cailan. Kings were too high up, a force to be heard about but unseen by common people like him. They lived in another world apart from his little alienage, the world as he had known it for most of his life.

Though old and official, Raviathan didn't believe in their magic, and it did seem like a type magic to him. Raviathan's fingers tingled from the lyrium etching that kept the parchment intact despite the wear of weather or time. The insignias remained clear, unfaded in their detail. How could these little pieces of paper, even with the faint magical aura from the protective wards, be so powerful as to compel another's action? How was one little piece of paper supposed to form an army? In all likelihood he would show this scrap of parchment to a door guard and be shooed away if not laughed at. Even if they did believe him, how was a little slip of paper supposed to compel so many? How was one little elf supposed to end a Blight?

Raviathan traced the first treaty in his hands, the one for the Dalish. Raviathan ran his fingertips over the silver and green insignia and felt a little thrill from that simple touch. A stylized mask made of various forest leaves held the symbol of his kin. This was as close as he ever got to them. In the alienage they were more like myth to the point that even their existence was debated. His wild kin. They kept the old ways, the ways of his people, they way elves always should be. All the horrible things that happened to his family and kin did not happen to the Dalish. They didn't have humans invading at a whim to kidnap or rape them. They didn't have to deal with squalor or random death like the alienage elves did. They had no humans pulling their ears until they bled. Despite his misgivings concerning the treaties, it would be worth it just to see the Dalish.

Unlike the Dalish, Raviathan did not look forward to the Circle of Magi. With Duncan and the rest of the Wardens gone, he was another apostate, Grey Warden or no. That wasn't a chance he was ready to take. Maybe he could have Alistair go to the Circle. It would be a lot more fitting for a templar to go, and it should be just a formality. Raviathan and Morrigan could wait well away from the templars.

Orzammar was far to the north and nestled at the edge of the Frostbacks. The pass that led there would probably be covered in snow until late spring. Raviathan had seen a few dwarves in Denerim, but they were a rare lot, and he could never afford their fine armor and weapons so paid little attention to them.

Then there was this Arl Eamon. Raviathan's brows creased as he considered that. It was in the nature of nobles to be treacherous and all shems to be cruel. Shems had very different notions of honor, so much so it should be a different word they used. Besides, to the shems he was another knife ear. If they did go to Redcliffe, it would have to be Alistair again who talked to them. Alistair vouched for the man, for what little that was worth, but the Arl was under no obligation to give them aid.

According to Duncan, the governing powers were obligated to help Grey Wardens during a Blight, but aside from Duncan's word what proof was there? Especially now when there were no other Wardens to corroborate that the Blight was real. What proof did he have that this was a Blight or that he was even a Warden for that matter? Nightmares weren't proof. As a mage, he understood the power of dreams and the Fade, but he also knew that many did not. Beyond that, what evidence was there? Without evidence, what hope did they have for compelling Eamon or any of the nobles? The best proof he had was the darkspawn horde which would now move unchecked, but if the others thought the coming army was just a large raid, they would probably fight to protect their own holdings and not unite as a large enough force.

Raviathan's musings stopped when a beetle crawled over his boot. He flicked the thing off but didn't have the energy to smirk when it landed on Alistair. Disgruntled, Raviathan rose and stretched, trying to get some blood to move through frozen limbs. Should he wake Alistair up to start moving? The human struggled as much as he did. Another day in this swamp, and Raviathan would be sick.

At times Raviathan resented the templar like an ugly burn that kept scraping on his awareness. Between the two of them, Alistair was the one who had potential answers, about the Wardens, about Loghain, the one he needed to be able to talk to. With the templar weeping at any mention of the Wardens, Raviathan didn't dare bring up Duncan. Though Raviathan knew it wasn't fair to be so angry with the man, his frustration kept gnawing away his patience. If there was any hope to get a handle on what happened, he needed to understand Loghain.

He twisted, popping his joints, but when Alistair didn't wake, Raviathan returned to the log and his thoughts.

The general's motives were a mystery. He fought with Cailan, which demonstrated clear concern with the young king's abilities. Loghain wasn't a flatterer, which Raviathan had initially respected in the general; however, Loghain had handled the Cailan all wrong. Instead of putting down his ideas of glory which would only bring out the king's stubbornness, all he had to do was coax him. 

Cailan was the type that responded eagerly to having his ego stroked as long as it wasn't obvious. It would have been easy to keep Cailan out of the battle. Just give him another fable about how his tactical ability, oh so wise beyond his years, true genius and bound to be put in the histories for ages to come, and the man would have sought that as his glory instead. Tell him to stand as a golden paragon on the rampart well away from the battle to give the men courage, a beacon of inspiration to reinvigorate their flagging hearts, and Cailan would have eaten it up.

Surely the great Hero of River Dane wouldn’t kill Cailan, the king’s army, or the Wardens because of his son in law’s indiscretions? Would he? Loghain maybe many things, but spiteful when the lives of soldiers were at stake or the clear threat of darkspawn threatening his beloved land was anathema to all the general stood for. 

Just like the last week of ruminating, all thoughts of Loghain lead to the same questions.

Raviathan ran his thumb over his lips as he considered Duncan's part in the manipulation of Cailan. There had been the precarious acceptance of the Wardens in Fereldan after their exile, but given Cailan's enthusiasm to be among the Wardens, Duncan’s concerns couldn't have been because he was worried about another exile. 

The Warden-Commander coaxed the king in order to get the troops he needed to fight the darkspawn, true. Duncan had been hesitant to talk about the king or his role in Fereldan politics. There seemed to be regret behind the hesitancy, but maybe Raviathan was reading too much into it. Still, the thought niggled at him. Whatever it takes to end the Blight. Wardens do what they must. What exactly was Duncan's part in this?

Oh, what did he know? What Raviathan had seen in his years in the alienage was the way their community could be divided, and when they were divided, less was done. Valendrian continued to persuade them to unite, but there was always something; exhaustion, despondency, Elva, that would keep the elves from having a clear voice or clear intentions. He couldn't compare the politics of the alienage to the wider politics of the nobles.

If his time with Duncan had told him anything, it was that humans had even less unity as a people. The strength of humans lay in their moderately larger size, their cruelness, and their capacity to breed extraordinary amounts of more humans. Inconsistency best described humans. Raviathan closed his eyes and thought about his mentor, how Duncan's large body had given him warmth as he adjusted to the world outside his alienage. Why couldn't more humans be like him?

The nature of human lords, however, was even more capricious. Though not cruel, Cailan had been a glory hound and eager for a chance to make a name for himself in history. As if being king wasn't enough. All that power, and he had access to the best tutors, libraries Raviathan could only dream about, but there was no wisdom. Raviathan had heard many times from his fellow elves that humans always wanted more. That adage hadn't been true with Duncan, but Cailan and the rest of the human lords and generals fit the statement too well.

After all these changes and only Duncan to cling to, Raviathan felt homesickness like a lead weight in his stomach. Soris' nervousness, his father's patience, Shianni's bright smile, sleeping with his wife's softness in his arms, it all ached deep to his bones. His life seemed less real without them. Too many changes, this thrust into a surreal whirlwind of violence and loss.

Discomfort tied him to the reality of the present, the anchor he needed to keep from feeling washed away. The grit in his misfit armor that chafed his skin or the headache from the dreary ever present fog tied him to the Maker's world. The alienage, as far away as it was now, held solid in his mind like a little glowing gem. That memory reminded him who he was and what he fought for. Misery made the rest real.

With a start Raviathan realized that Alistair was watching him. Raviathan shook himself and rolled the treaties back into their case before standing to warm up his muscles. He had let himself get too lost in thought. They weren't exactly safe, and that had been careless. Why was that mage hunter watching him anyway? Raviathan rolled his neck and shoulders hearing a few loud pops. Did the templar suspect anything? He might just be biding his time until they reach Lothering. Of all the Wardens to be stuck with, it would be his luck to have to deal with that damnable templar. He wanted the other Wardens of Orlais if for no other reason than to get some distance from the mage hunter. He wasn't sure if Alistair would actually turn him in, but he wouldn't take any chances if he could help it.

Sound didn't carry well in the fog coated swamp. Morrigan was smart enough to make her presence known instead of bursting into camp as they were on edge. "Ah," she said. "I see you are both awake. It is perhaps time to move on then."

Raviathan slung on his backpack, bow, and healer's bag. The swords and knives were already on. He rubbed his forehead as he waited for Alistair who was just as slow at rising as he had been. Raviathan spoke in a low voice to Morrigan as they started taking slow steps out of the camp clearing. "I hate this fog. It's like a miasma that invades my mind and makes everything unreal. I keep wanting to rub the sleep out of my eyes."

Morrigan shrugged, but her voice was pleasant. She could be surprisingly good at answering questions when the mood struck her. Conversations could be tricky though. Raviathan wasn't quite sure what would set off a biting remark just yet, but he was getting a feel for the witch. He had never been around someone who had been so isolated before. "I suppose I am used to it. The fog hides many things and can be a welcoming veil when one is in danger. The Chasind use it quite effectively when they war with each other."

"Did you often meet with the Chasind?"

"Almost never. My mother did on occasion have some interest in the men, but… I do not care to talk about it."

There was something in the witch's tone that made Raviathan consider her upbringing more. Flemeth hadn't struck him as matronly, and he wondered at the pain the woman unintentionally let show. She wasn't in the habit of hiding her emotions, but then growing up in the Wilds she wouldn't have had much cause.

Behind them Alistair crashed through the brush to make up the distance though they had kept their pace slow for him. Raviathan winced. He didn't have to be so loud. As much as he might want to, it wasn't like they were going to leave him behind in the swamp. Raviathan really wanted to talk to a fellow apostate without that damn templar hanging around. "Okay. Do you mind continuing your lessons on flora and fauna?"

That was greeted with a small laugh. "You are a most eager student. I am surprised."

"It's useful." Raviathan had already taken a number of the Wilds flowers that had helped the mabari at Ostagar. If it helped the dog then maybe it had some benefit that the Wardens could use as well. They were pressed in a compartment for later study and their seeds labeled in a vial.

"But you already have much knowledge on these subjects."

"Plants maybe. I've lived in a city all my life so the rest is very new. A fortnight ago I had never seen a living wolf before."

Morrigan stared at him in shock before shaking her head in wonder. "I could not imagine such a life. I find cities strange and confining."

"You've only been to Lothering before though?"

She nodded, moving a low branch out of her way. Raviathan stepped through before she let the branch go which snapped back to hit Alistair in the neck.

"Hey!"

The mages ignored him.

"True," she replied to Raviathan's comment. "It is too obvious I think for them to realize I am an outsider. There is much to their custom that is beyond me."

"Such as?"

Morrigan's face turned sour and the two walked a little more quickly to move away from Alistair. Instead of taking the hint for privacy, the templar crashed through the swamp faster to keep up. Maker, he was loud. Was he cracking every fallen branch underfoot just to be perverse? Raviathan had not been in many wild areas, but he took care to watch his step. Morrigan moved as silently as a snake through the underbrush.

"Where to start? There are so many little signals you give each other. How a nod of the head means 'yes' or understanding or thought but not acceptance or flirtation depending on how it's done. When to look at a person's face or when to look away. When to touch. There is entirely too much touching. I find it invasive all that constant touching."

She wouldn't care for elven life then. He loved the touch of his kin and friends. Raviathan's brows knit as he considered. He had always thought such nonverbal cues were intrinsic and natural. Perhaps they were learned after all. She probably got the basics of human interaction as he did, but the details remained unclear. "Can you communicate with other animals well?"

There was a sucking sound from behind them as Alistair pulled his foot out of a mud hole. That templar was completely hopeless. Strange, Raviathan mused. The templar was better in the more open areas of the swamp they had covered before the Joining ritual. He had even exuded a quiet authority and calm patience with the other humans. Morrigan let out an impatient huff directed at the templar as she answered. "I cannot read their minds and they have no language beyond a few sounds."

"But you can read their body language, can't you? Probably better than most people could."

"I… suppose." She cocked her head in thought. "I have noticed that humans stare sometimes to show interest. Most animals would take it as a sign of hostility, that you are trying to dominate them." That train of conversation got Morrigan to open up. Raviathan asked a few questions or murmured words of interest to keep her going. The lecture was interesting on its own, but it also explained a lot of Morrigan's behavior. When they first met she tended not to look at them for too long and when she did, there was that underscore of testing dominance. It had been subtle enough that he had passed it off as an odd affectation. Now that he knew what to look for, it was obvious.

After an hour and a half of picking their way through the swamp they reached a thin trail. Their pace doubled with the sure earthen path, and they were out of the swamp in another half hour. Raviathan stretched, happy to see the sun again. Maybe now that achy cough would go away.

The party fell quiet as the path broadened to a true road. Morrigan seemed a touch forlorn as she left her familiar home. Raviathan could sympathize. He let his thoughts go back to introspection for the moment. He understood loss well and given that understanding he was being rather hard on Alistair. Mage hunter and shem the man may be, but he was also in mourning.

Should they try to contact the Orlesian Wardens? Raviathan didn't even know what city they were based in. His history was so spotty, his geography even more pathetic. He wished he knew more about Loghain and the Warden's history. Duncan had said the Ferelden compound was in Denerim. Although Raviathan had lived in Denerim his whole life he had not known that. Duncan had a gift for picking the most unprepared to be Wardens.

At that thought, Raviathan felt another flash of annoyance at Cailan. He suspected most nobles were just as dismissive of their libraries and tutors from what he heard from the elven servants who returned home with stories of bratty children who whined and played pranks rather than take the opportunity to actually learn. Cailan knew only the stories about glory and had none of the tactical training necessary for someone in his position.

Raviathan bit his lips. There was still so much about the situation that didn't make sense. Loghain's protests to Cailan had seemed earnest and were given with more emphasis than Duncan's passive warnings. Was the teyrn's treachery because of Cailan's infidelity? That didn't explain why the teyrn was willing to risk Wardens and soldiers alike just to get back at the king if that were true. Mass slaughter for the indiscretions of his son-in-law? The teyrn drove out the Orlesians some three decades ago, but it was Grey Wardens who were coming for the battle, not Orlesians. It wasn't a large enough force to threaten Ferelden in any case. That couldn't be the teyrn's motivation.

Desire for the throne was most likely so far. Perhaps he missed the authority after Cailan was old enough to take rule. He might not have minded when Cailan was a puppet to be told what to do, but as soon as the young man started having his own ideas, he became a nuisance.

Too late, Raviathan had heeded his father's advise about following politics. Knowing more about Anora, Loghain, and Cailan would have been helpful now. Maker's blood, it would have helped him see the battle strategies clearly before that slaughter had gone down.

The crumbling Imperial Highway rose high on his right with fields and scattered farms to the left and north. Evergreens and beech trees spotted the fields with the forest's edge in the distance. Each breath of clean air eased Raviathan, his lungs glad to be fully rid of the rotting swamp. The ubiquitous southern wind that brought the frozen air of the ice wastes north whipped hard through the trees by turns. At times the morning was chilly, but more often than not Raviathan found it invigorating. Clouds cast large shadows that sped across the fields. Long grasses, harried by the wind, undulated like ocean waves. Fereldan weather didn't get much clearer, the recent rain evident in the high greens of the rolling fields and new snow atop the distant mountains.

For a moment Raviathan let thoughts of Loghain and darkspawn go as he took in the sights. He wasn't as sore anymore from walking, and this was one of the few times he could appreciate the lands he travelled. He was going to have fantastic stories to tell when he got back to the alienage. At least these stories he could tell without getting in trouble.

Interrupting his thoughts was a great brown beast running north out of the swamp. The beast, a heavily muscled dog the size of a pony, stopped and sniffed at the air. Once the dog's brown eyes fixed on Raviathan, he doubled his pace. Once Raviathan realized the dog was heading straight for him, he knelt down to greet the animal. Morrigan frowned at the dog who thumped his ass on the ground in front of Raviathan and panted, his tongue lolling out of one side of his grinning jaws. At least the dog's breath didn't stink. Raviathan reached out a hand for the animal to sniff, but the dog was well beyond the formal greeting. With a chuckle at the animal's straightforward surety, Raviathan said, "You're the dog I helped back at Ostagar, aren't you."

The dog gave a happy bark and pushed his great head against Raviathan's outstretched hand. For the first time since the battle at Ostagar, the elf smiled and scratched the dog behind the ear. Alistair said, "Looks like he's chosen you."

"So this mangy mutt is going to be following us about now?" Morrigan said irritably. "Wonderful."

Alistair cooed at the dog. "He's not mangy."

At least his fellow Warden wasn't moping for a change. Maybe the bit of sun was doing him some good as well. Raviathan said to Morrigan, "I thought you liked animals."

"Creatures of the wild are to my tastes. Not these domesticated slobbering beasts who have forgotten what they were supposed to be." She huffed. "And he smells."

"The kennel master said something about imprinting." Raviathan said, trying to ignore the witch's remark. That comment on wild and domesticated hit too close to home considering his own thoughts on the Dalish and city elves. The dog whined and leaned his shoulder into Raviathan's chest. "Oh you're a charmer." He grinned, rubbing the dog's massive shoulder.

Alistair elaborated, "They choose only one master as their own but are loyal to that one master to their death. It's suppose to be very hard to get them reimprinted. Often they die when their master does."

Raviathan could hear the tears starting again in Alistair's voice. He pressed his jaw tight with annoyance. He understood mourning, but for love of the Maker they had a job to do. He squashed the little voice in his head that called him a hypocrite and turned his attention to the dozen or so men who were marching down the road. Were they part of Loghain's army? They didn't… move right. The dog tensed, his hard muscles like stone under his short coat, and growled at the group. With the sudden strength of a coiled snake striking, the dog leaped forward and raced for the group.

Alistair stared at the soldiers then whispered, "Darkspawn."

Raviathan's eyes went wide, and he ran full tilt for the group unsheathing both sword and dagger. Damn dog was going to get himself killed. They were hurlocks, pale maggot like skin stretched across wide, skeletal grins. The leader, wearing a horned helm that covered its face, laughed with a low menace that made Raviathan's skin want to jump off. The rest hissed, moving forward in that odd crawling centipede like gait that reeked of wrongness. There wasn't anything in the Maker's world that should move like that. Raviathan felt the taint in him wriggle and writhe under his skin.

At least he didn't have to feel bad for killing these monsters. They weren't guards hired to do a job. They didn't have souls. Raviathan's lips stretched back in a savage smile as his dagger swept the first sword strike away and his sword dove into the corrupted husk.

The chinking of splintmail armor sounded behind him as the tickling energies of magic prickled the skin at his back. He kicked the next hurlock in the knee, crippling the thing as another flanked so both were facing him, ready to attack. The templar's shield bashed into a third coming around Raviathan's right, stunning it and forcing it back. Raviathan scissored his blades, killing the stunned hurlock with quick swipe at the thing's neck. Black blood sprayed out. With a burst of magical energy, the hurlock to his left was encased in ice and shattered with a hard strike of his sword.

They moved the line back, cutting down each row. The taint in Raviathan's blood sang with adrenaline. What he didn't have in muscle he made up for in quickness and finesse and the taint that made him stronger had no problem killing its own kind. He could feel it now as he hadn't been able to that first night. It didn't exactly revel in death as much as it enjoyed violence. It enjoyed the rush, the challenge. It was faint, so much that Raviathan thought he imagined it, but there was a song that his blood was singing now. On the farthest reach of his awareness, he could feel the darkspawn, could sense their intentions and was just a split second faster in action. It wasn't much, but it was there.

Using Alistair's shield to keep his right flank protected, Raviathan thrust at the hurlocks to his front and left. He heard the dog snarl then the hurlock scrabbling out to his left was hauled down. The dog leapt on the spitting thing in an instant, tearing at its face. It was a short, brutal fight before they reached the large hurlock. They surrounded it, and between the elf, human, dog, and witch, the large darkspawn was down in seconds.

Blood hummed in Raviathan's ears as he looked about the corpses. No wonder the Wardens were strong. It wasn't just they chose the best as Duncan had said. The taint was ugly, was sin incarnate, and it was power. What would it be like in another few weeks when the taint finally settled? Raviathan leaned back against the fence and couldn't keep the wild grin off his face. It felt good to move again. His blood danced in the high of battle.

Alistair tossed his head back as he filled his lungs. "Maker… you're fast."

Raviathan chuckled as he took great gulps of air that seemed to clean the lingering traces of fog from his lungs. "Thanks."

A great brown furred mass bowled Raviathan over then started licking him like an earnest puppy. "Argh! What?" Raviathan covered his head and buried his face in the long grass by the side of the road. "Get off!" But couldn't stop laughing. Stupid dog. He was probably just as happy to be alive. If the dog survived drinking darkspawn blood, did that make him immune now too? Considering he probably just got some more of the black blood in him, Raviathan hoped so.

The wide tongue got part of his ear, making him shiver. "Stop it. For real."

The dog sat back with a wide doggy grin as Raviathan pawed at his wet ear.

"No. Don't you be happy about that." Raviathan stood and glared down at the dog who cocked his head in confusion. "No licking my ear," Raviathan scolded. "Ever. Is that understood?"

It was only after he caught Morrigan's condescending expression out of the corner of his eye that he realized that talking to the dog like that probably looked stupid. Oh who cares what the witch thinks. The dog understood him and bowed his head with a whine. "Alright," Raviathan said, scratching the dog's head then noticing the new grass stains on his blanket turned tunic. "Enough said." The dog perked up and the grin was back on Raviathan's face.

"What are you going to name him," Alistair asked.

At the templar's wistful tone, Raviathan looked up to see the human had a small smile of genuine if quiet mirth. His brown eyes had warmed again as they had when the two first met. "Um," Raviathan started as he looked back at the massive dog. "No idea really. Any suggestions?"

"How about annoying," Morrigan said, wrinkling her nose away from the dog.

Raviathan gave her a quick glare that had no heat before standing and wiping grass from his tunic. "Well, we could always just call him Dog."

"You can't call him Dog." Alistair huffed. "People don't go around calling you Elf."

Raviathan scowled. "No. They usually call me knife ears or hey you, get your lazy ass back to work."

"I… I didn't mean," Alistair started stammering.

Raviathan raised a hand. "Sorry. I shouldn't have snapped." The templar had finally showed another emotion beyond grief and he had to immediately pounce on him. Brilliant. He ran his fingers through his hair a few times, fluffing it out to get rid of the last of the grass strands before wiping the rest off his tunic.

Alistair looked worriedly at the dog. "If he's swallowed any of that blood…"

"I don't think it'll be a problem," Raviathan said. "That's what he was sick with when I saw him. I helped the kennel master with his healing. I expect he's as much Grey Warden as we are."

"So there are three of us now? Good to know," Alistair said with a smile and scratched the dog's head.

Morrigan sniped, "Perhaps the Wardens should be more careful in their recruiting. We now have a dog and Alistair is still the dumbest one of our party." Alistair frowned at her.

Feeling a trickle of sympathy, Raviathan tried to lighten the mood. "Maybe we could try for some fearsome chipmunks next. The darkspawn would never expect an army of little fuzzy Grey Wardens." Morrigan rolled her eyes, but Alistair chuckled.

"Darkspawn, darkspawn," Alistair mumbled. The dog gave a series of harsh barks as he pranced over the dead bodies. "I got it!" he said triumphantly. "Barkspawn!"

The mages stared at him.

"You have got to be kidding," Raviathan said in disbelieving horror.

"As I said," Morrigan added, "the dumbest one of our party."

This time Raviathan didn't try to help the templar. He watched as the dog bounced around the corpses, delighted with his kill. "Hmm. Perhaps something related to our position now. Make it representative."

"Hopeless?" Morrigan offered. This time Raviathan's glare did have heat. Alistair looked between the two of them noticing as the tension become wire tight. Even the dog stopped jumping around. Raviathan kept his gaze steady until she looked away.

"Um. Right," Alistair mumbled in the uncomfortable silence. "Well. There's only two of us. Justice? For what happened at Ostagar. Something like that?"

They watched the dog savage the large hurlock's breastplate as if it were a chew toy. Raviathan narrowed his eyes at the dog thoughtfully. "More like vengeance."

Alistair nibbled at the inside of his cheek. "That seems, well, harsh. True but harsh."

"It isn't just for Loghain," Raviathan said. "Loghain may have quit the field and left our comrades, but it was the darkspawn that did the actual killing. Vengeance against them. Against Loghain. Against the darkspawn." The resonant baritone of his voice reverberated off the high wall of the Imperial Highway. "For his former master," to which the dog gave him a serious look. They were all watching him intently now as he glared at the bodies in the road. The little elf seemed to change aspect before their eyes. By turns introspective and curious, he now seemed to focus the chill of winter through his voice. It was eerie, as if he had become a different person.

The wind that had been blowing steadily from the south became colder as the elf intoned, "For the King and soldiers who sacrificed their lives. For Duncan and all the Grey Wardens. They struck at us and shed the blood of heroes, brave men and women who fought, who gave their lives to protect this nation, its citizens. They took everything that was valuable at the worst time imaginable. It's our turn now. We are the Grey Wardens, and we do not shrink away in fear. We will not be broken by one man's treachery. We will turn the earth black with darkspawn blood. We will lay waste to all those who oppose us. The blood of the betrayed shall be repaid because we are the Grey Wardens, and we will have our vengeance."

Raviathan turned down the road, his strides quick with renewed purpose. Without turning around he raised his hand up, snapping his fingers. "Venger!"

The dog loped up immediately to follow his master's command. Morrigan raised her eyebrows in surprised interest and fell in line followed by a stunned Alistair.


	36. Crossroads – Pretty as a Painting

They had moved up to the Imperial Highway after the road ended in a mushy bog from all the recent rain. The sun warmed them as the exercise loosened cold muscles. Despite the crisp day Raviathan felt dirtier than he had ever in his life. Even in winter when water was harder to obtain with the frozen pipes and clothing took days to dry, Raviathan had never worn the same clothes day in and out for a week. He felt rank. Could be that’s why Venger didn’t stink to him? Morrigan hadn’t complained of his smell though. The wind that had felt wonderful before was now starting to chap his skin, and everything felt coated and irritating. After a mile Raviathan and Morrigan continued their discussion of wild animals. Her knowledge about them seemed endless and was a pleasant way to distract from his growing discomfort. They spoke in low voices while his fingers scratched Venger’s neck. Alistair trudged behind the three, his moping back in full force. If a stranger saw them they were likely to assume the lone human was travelling separately. 

Farmlands became more frequent though forest, fields, and wetlands remained common. Morrigan eventually slipped into silence. Considering she had never spoken so much with any one person besides her mother, Raviathan wasn’t surprised that she tired of speech. She was growing more agitated the further they moved from the Wilds, which was understandable. She would probably open up again once the newness of the situation wore off, and he could wait a few days while she adjusted. With the humans quiet Raviathan began to contemplate the swift and fickle nature of change. Just a week ago he and Duncan had walked down this road. The one human he had trusted. If only Duncan had been willing to talk more about the Grey Wardens. It was something he could easily forgive Duncan now. The Joining had changed so much for him. 

A few weeks ago he had been getting married. He had lived in that alienage filled with routine for years. He could see his future in the routine of others. Years were drawn out in the increasing slump of the dockworkers as they became more worn down. From that alone he had known how he would look at thirty, at forty, fifty, and so on. He had seen the future ghosts of his own children growing as he had watched all the other elves age. It was the same dance played out from one generation to the next. 

Now that Duncan was gone Raviathan wondered how much had weighed on the man. He had kept eyes on all of Ferelden, nobles and commoners alike, and in many ways more than the king had. That had been striking and something Raviathan had not really appreciated until now. It was like when he went to work. His father had always gone to work every morning, just as the sun rose or seasons came and went. It was routine and to be expected. As he got older he appreciated more of what his father did, but it wasn’t until he went to work himself that he saw the patience and care, and the burden, that his father carried effortlessly. 

Raviathan had felt cheated out of his freedom when he heard he had to marry. That was nothing to feeling cheated out of his life. He had resented it when his father had withdrawn after his mother was killed. More than any other time he needed his father, but something inside his father’s heart had shut down with the loss of his wife. Now that Ness was gone, Raviathan understood that pain a little better as well. He had seen his life with Ness, how it was going to grow deeper with time, could see the decades that lay before him as they grew old together. Losing her had cut deep after only a couple months together. Her death would have been devastating after two decades. 

“Look lively, gentlemen. We have newcomers, led by an elf of all things.” The dark man chuckled. Raviathan snapped out of his reverie to see a group of humans, all in leather armor and well armed, barricading the passage off of the Imperial Highway. The Highway fell away a wagon’s length beyond the ramp. Stowed in the remains of the ancient road were broken crates along with a small wagon and chests. The other end of the Highway started again in a rubble strewn half wall miles beyond the village. The only other ramp was miles behind them, effectively cutting Lothering off unless they wanted to make a half day’s journey around. 

“Uhh,” started a dimwitted thug with heavy brows, a thick jutting lower lip, and a scant bit of reddish fuzz clinging to his balding plate. “These don’t look like regular refugees.” 

“The toll applies to everyone, Heinrick.” The dark man filled his role as jovial highwayman with vigor. “That’s why it’s a toll and not a refugee tax.” 

“Oh right,” said the dim thug as comprehension wormed its way into his dull if slightly more observant brain. “You pay, or we get to pick your corpse.” 

The dark man grinned. “Now then…” 

An image of Nesiara crying shot into Raviathan’s mind. Her terror because of men like this filled him with a sudden white hot wrath. How many people had they hurt because they could? How many deaths could be laid at their feet? How many rapes? The weak or innocent never have a chance in this world, and it was because of men like this. Bright red hair flashed in his mind’s eye along with a smile that had been stolen. Shianni hurt because of humans with swords. 

Not allowed to scream. 

Before Morrigan or Alistair could react, the elf rushed the bandits, drawing his sword and dagger. Before the shocked bandits’ weapons were half drawn, one bandit went down with a slashed throat opened to create a red macabre grin. 

With a curse Alistair pulled his sword and shield, just getting his defenses up in time for a crossbow bolt to thud into the wooden shield and not the side of his face. Venger raced forward to catch the bowman’s arm. Heavy jaws penetrated through the armor, his neck thrashing, pulling the man off balance and down to a knee. Once on the same level, the bandit’s face and throat were ripped apart before he could scream. Alistair bashed his shield into the leader, dazing the man as he countered the dim bandit’s thrust. 

Snarling in rage, Raviathan took down a third bandit with ruthless force just as Morrigan froze another running back behind a wagon to ready his crossbow. The frozen bandit’s brown eyes stared blindly forward, crystallized by the ice. Raviathan swung down his blade with as much force as he could muster. Instead of cracking through the ice to cut flesh, the man shattered. Icy chunks of flesh and bone lay scattered about. Disgust rose in Raviathan’s throat. One part of his mind checked off bits of anatomy as he identified lungs, kidneys, liver, and so on at a glance. He shut away his revulsion at the icy chunks of human and turned to finish the job. 

Alistair had his back to a wagon and was defending against two men. Venger ran forward, sinking his teeth into the dim thug’s thigh. He yelled, twisting his torso to cut down the dog. When his arm raised to level a strike, Raviathan’s dagger penetrated the vulnerable underside of the man’s armor. The thug almost dropped his claymore. When he tried to turn to face the two opponents, Venger pulled, forcing the man off balance. The dog went after the man’s sword hand, and there was a satisfying crunch of bone followed by a scream. 

“Look out!” Alistair yelled. 

Raviathan spun and was just able to deflect the bandit leader’s first sword strike. Despite being dazed earlier, this human was still stronger and they were trained in the same style of combat. Given that they might be equals in skill, stronger would always beat him. Going for the unexpected, Raviathan dropped to a knee, keeping his sword up for protection, struck with his dagger at the man’s leg, and pushed off hard to roll to the side. Morrigan’s chanting finished, encasing the man in a brownish aura. The leader staggered but was able to keep his feet and turned to face Raviathan. Finally able to get a killing blow on the bandit he had been fighting, Alistair turned and slammed his shield again into the bandit leader causing the man to stagger and fall to his knees. 

“Wait, wait,” the bandit started lowering his weapons. Raviathan sliced open his throat without hesitation. 

There was a moment of stunned silence as the three looked about at the bodies. Alistair slumped on a crate as he looked about, bewildered at the speed at which the bandits were killed and mass of blood. He saw the frozen chunks of bandit and turned pale before looking away. “What happened to you?” he asked the elf. 

Raviathan shrugged. “They were bandits. I should feel sorry for them?” 

“No,” Alistair said, watching him nervously. “Not that. You were just a lot more cautious in the Wilds.” 

Raviathan shrugged as he looked at the corpses. How much did Alistair know about him? If he explained about Nesiara, would that information get back to the templars? He can still turn me in. They could use Ness against me. His father knew how to be wary, but not Ness. “I’m not going to search that body,” he said, indicating the frozen chunks that were starting to thaw as the spell wore off. “Morrigan, go through these,” he said, waving a hand at the corpses, “while I take a look at the stockpile.” 

Raviathan scratched the dog’s head as he pulled out his lock picks and began going through the bandits’ stash. As a general rule, refugees didn’t have much, but they must have been filched down to their clothes. Raviathan tied two purses of silver coins and a smaller pouch of gold to his belt. There was a small pile of jewelry, but the rest were odds and ends: clothing, a few vases, three carpets, a finely wrought lamp, some spectacles that looked to be made of gold, and whatever else the bandits thought worthy of keeping. At a soft bleating, Raviathan looked over the side of the Highway. In the crook of the L-shaped ramp was a little makeshift corral. Inside, a small rather sweet looking lamb and a few chickens ranged. An ox tied to a post grazed with no concern for the violence on the highway. With the bandits gone, the refugees could enjoy a fine supper. 

“Find anything?” Raviathan asked when he turned around. 

“Some coin,” Morrigan called back with disinterest. “Not much beyond a bit of tack.” 

“We can sell the weapons then,” Raviathan said. “Especially the crossbows.” The close combat required by a sword intimidated most untrained people whereas a crossbow didn’t need a lot of strength and could be deadly at a distance. It was a good weapon for farmers and refugees who weren’t skilled in fighting but needed some defense. “Let’s gather what we can.” 

With the work done, Raviathan got his first glimpse of Lothering as they turned to the village.

“So here we are. Lothering. Pretty as a painting,” Alistair said, and for the first time it looked like he would do so without bursting into tears. Morrigan snarked at him and he replied with as much in return. Raviathan traded annoyed looks with Venger about the two then went back to reviewing the village from his vantage on the Highway. Tents strewn about the muddy hovel with a few stone buildings centered around the city proper just beyond a thin canal. A templar was guarding the entrance to the city. Thank the Maker that all templars wore that same uniform. It at least made them easy to spot and prepare for. 

The refugees had probably more than tripled the population of the town. Well, Maker’s bloody stubbed toe. Food would be at a premium, so there went his hopes for restocking. That little corral of farm animals the bandits had confiscated would help, but they needed more than meat. They needed tents and camping equipment. With their meager funds, inns wouldn’t be common in the near future. There weren’t any tents close by which meant the bandits probably had a safe house or camp far outside the city. 

Raviathan glowered at the templar guarding the main entrance to the village. While that hateful moron stood there with his thumb up his ass, refugees had been frisked down to their knickers. Completely useless. Raviathan glanced at the dark clouds coming up from the south. Winter’s snow, already late in the season, would soon be on them. Best bet was probably to get out of Lothering after they got whatever news they could. Supplies they would have to find elsewhere.

Silence. Raviathan realized he had probably been addressed and turned to regard the two who were watching him. “I’m sorry. What?” 

Alistair was doing his best to stand tall and put some authority into his voice. “The treaties. Have you looked at them?” Raviathan stared at him. Had that templar been hit on the head? “We have treaties for…” 

“I’ve read the bloody treaties,” Raviathan snapped at him. “What in the Maker’s name do you think I’ve been doing every morning for the last week? I could make copies from memory.” 

Morrigan smirked at the templar who flushed as all the authority leaked out of him. “Um,” he stammered. “I still think Arl Eamon is our best bet. We may even want to go to him first.” 

It was a simple plan, but at least they were finally starting to talk about strategy. “What’s your opinion on the matter Morrigan?” 

“I think you should take this battle directly to your enemy,” she chimed in, gratified to be asked. “Take out this Loghain like chopping the head off a snake.” 

“Oh,” Alistair replied with contemptuous snark. “We’d only have to sneak into Palace past all the royal guards and the Teyrn’s personal militia and…” 

“I was asked my opinion and I gave it!” Morrigan shot back.

“Quiet!” Raviathan growled as Alistair was about to retort with some derisive comment judging by the look on his face. Was that really as far as either of them had thought? Alistair was in mourning, but he had expected more from Morrigan. She really knew nothing outside of the Wilds. He paused for a moment then said, “I think we should split up.” 

After an alarmed second they both started in at once. 

“But we’re the only two Grey Wardens left. If something happened…” 

“We’d have no way of contacting each other. What if…” 

“This makes us more vulnerable. We’re stronger as a team…” 

“If one falls, how would the others find out? We’d lose any progress…” 

Raviathan raised his hand for silence. “Hear me out. The Blight comes first. Loghain is secondary to that. If we split up, we can get more done, and time is vital. I’ve got the best chance of the three of us to meet with the Dalish. Besides, humans might make them hostile. The Brecillian Forrest is close, so I’ll go there first. After that I’ll head to Orzammar. With any luck the pass won’t be snowed in. If not, I’ll have to get a guide. Morrigan shouldn’t go anywhere near the Mage’s Tower. Alistair, as a templar, they’ll be most receptive to you. I’d say go to the Circle before this Arl Eamon in case there are politics at play with Loghain. At least the treaty will be fulfilled if something happens to you. Morrigan should go to Orlais to contact the rest of the Grey Wardens. She can fly over the mountains quickly and borders won’t be a problem for her. The other Wardens need to know what happened, and they’ll have the tactical knowledge we need to fight the Blight.” There. That seemed succinct enough. 

The two stared at him for a long moment. Raviathan waited, wondering at their reaction. What he said couldn’t have been that controversial. They both started again at once. 

“Just fly across the border? And what should I do if some stray arrow or hawk…”

“But I’m a templar. The mages won’t want to listen to me. They hate me.” 

“And I don’t speak Orlesian. I’d be useless in this task.”

“And a lot more can happen to an individual. It makes us more…” 

“I don’t even know where the Grey Wardens are. How am I supposed to find them?” 

“How would we contact each other? Or send information? We’d be even more lost.” 

“Would they even listen to me? They might think me delusional or a spy.” 

“And if Loghain has involved the nobles, well, what am I supposed…” 

“I’m no servant to be sent off for this or that. If you want my help…” 

“Right now we need to stick together.” 

This? This is what the two could agree on? Even Venger had hopped forward on his haunches and pawed at his leg with a piteous whine. Raviathan started rubbing his forehead to ease a newly forming headache. Maker’s puss spewing ass. This was a nightmare. Alistair he could sort of understand being needy, but Morrigan was a surprise. Why did she even care? She couldn’t be that afraid of the world outside the Wilds. It’s because she wants something, the little voice in his head told him. Not like he trusted the templar any more than she did. 

“Fine. Fine!” he repeated to shut them up. He sighed. “Let’s just head into Lothering. Get some news. We’ll decide from there.” 

The path leading off the Imperial Highway lowered a wide slope to accommodate merchants and now scores upon scores of current indigents who swelled the village. The two humans followed the elf and his dog in morose silence. Raviathan pursed his lips, thinking they both pouted like children. He had a sudden urge to march the two back to Flemeth’s hut and continue without them. He whispered to Venger, “I would have taken you with me, you know.” 

Venger’s powerful jaws opened in a slobbery doggy grin and all was right in his world again. Raviathan scratched the dog’s head, wishing it were as easy for him to find such peace. 

Some of the refugees chatted freely enough. Most were put off by their armor and weapons thinking they were dangerous which was startling to say the least. Never in all his eighteen years had any shem thought he was dangerous, especially considering he was in ill fitted and mismatched armor appearing little better than a lucky scavenger. These were the shems who had always intimidated him as a child or condescended to him as an adult. He wasn’t sure if it was that he represented something violent which made them fearful or if it was because they had fled their homes and were insecure. He suspected the latter was truer. If he had approached them at their farmsteads, he would have received hostile looks or threats, but like him, home and therefore security were gone. It had taken him a fortnight to start regaining his equilibrium. How long would it take them? 

“Excuse me.” Raviathan looked over to see a weathered elf approach. He had the look of a man whose face was prematurely lined making him appear ten years older than he probably was, and the broad shoulders that indicated a life of heavy farm labor. What must have been his wife and daughter stood near a hastily erected fence made for the refugee camp. The woman was lovely, just the type he would have gone for if she had been a widow in the alienage. The daughter was going to inherit a lot of her mother’s beauty as she aged. 

“Yes? How can I help you?” Raviathan asked, leaving Morrigan and Alistair to talk to some brothers who had been forced from their farm. 

The older elf was ashamed of asking, clear when he couldn’t meet Raviathan’s gaze. “I beg your pardon. I don’t supposed you could spare any change?” 

Raviathan had met many beggars in the alienage and knew a professional from a true cripple. This man was neither. “Here,” he said digging into one of the pouches lifted from a bandit. “Fifty silver. Will that do?” 

The wife’s eyes filled with such gratitude that it made Raviathan feel ashamed. The man stammered quietly, “Th-thank you. I… I thought another elf might understand.” 

The wife came forward then still holding her daughter’s hand and hugged him. “Thank you.” 

“Are you from here?” 

“No,” the wife said. “My husband and I lived in a little village south of here. When the teyrn’s army came through, they warned us that the darkspawn were heading north then confiscated most of the town’s provisions for winter. We had no choice but to move with what we had left.” 

“And then those bandits.” The husband spat. “We went to the Chantry, but no one cares about a few elves.” 

Raviathan leaned in and whispered, “The bandits are dead. Hurry to get what you can, but don’t take your daughter up there.” 

“Dead?” asked the wife in astonishment. 

“You… you killed them?” the husband asked, looking at the armor and weapons with renewed respect. 

“Yes. Don’t make it obvious. Likely you’ll be mugged if any of the others see you.” 

“Oh, this is wonderful news,” the wife said. “Maybe we can get Lyrra’s lamb back.” 

“I’ll be careful,” the husband promised. “If we stay off the Highway as much as possible, we might be safe.” 

Raviathan said, “You might be better in numbers. I’m sure the town is going to have an official evacuation.” 

“He’s right,” the wife replied. “Take what will get us far but nothing bulky.” The wife kissed Raviathan on the cheek. “Thank you again. I don’t know how we can repay you.” The husband hugged him in thanks and ambled over to the Highway’s ramp with the invisibility of a good servant. 

“Maker watch over you,” Raviathan said as Alistair and Morrigan came forward. The wife shrank back at their approach, her daughter clutched close, so Raviathan led the two humans to another area of the refugee camps where they could speak in peace. “Find out anything?”

“Nothing new,” Alistair said. “Just more nervous or scared people trying to outrun the darkspawn.” Morrigan looked bored. Raviathan thought her outfit was a fantastic distraction for the elves as many of the refugees cast looks her way. 

Noon had come and gone. Though he hadn’t eaten more than a few bites of raw roots this morning, he wasn’t feeling hungry even after all the walking they did. Maker’s blood. He had walked more in the last three weeks than he had in all the years of his life, but the sight of the templar guarding the entrance to the village had robbed him of his insistent appetite. 

Raviathan nibbled his lower lip as he glanced over at the templar. Perhaps now was as good a time as any for a test. “Alistair.” 

The templar looked up with a blank expression. “What?” 

“Go talk to that templar by the town entrance. See what information he has, and if they’re distracted enough not to notice Morrigan. We’ll make lunch,” he added to assuage the petulant man. 

“Fine. Whatever.” 

Morrigan glowered as she watched his back. “How do you know he won’t set them on me?” 

“Because I’m going to follow and listen. It’ll at least give me some clue as to how much to trust him.” 

Morrigan studied him. “You do not trust him? He is a fellow of your Order, is he not?” 

Raviathan matched her look. “If all goes well, I’ll let you know why soon enough. If there’s an emergency, go east to South Reach. We can meet there. Venger, go help Morrigan find some wood.” The dog barked and pranced away, blissfully unaware of Morrigan’s wrinkled nose. 

“Wonderful,” she drawled. Though he liked Morrigan well enough for a human so far, he turned away so she wouldn’t catch his smirk. The two shems could both be mightily annoying. Her competence in the Wilds and willingness to answer questions notwithstanding, neither were people he could trust. Having never felt lonely before, it had taken him the last week to understand the emotion. It seemed doubly strange considering he was never alone, but constantly with the two humans. 

Settling on his task, Raviathan crouched behind a tent and some bushes in order to cloak in shadow. It was one of the skills he had picked up quickly from his mother’s training much to her delight. While discipline was strict, and he was to never disobey one of her rules or cause too much trouble, she did love mischief. The two of them had fun sneaking about the alienage and occasionally into the world outside. Though she had made it a game, these were a spy and thief’s skills he was learning. Only recently had he appreciated that as adult awareness opened up his child’s world view. Her masters had trained her to be an infiltrator, by turns a pretty but harmless entertainer or spy, one who had been the product of generations of breeding to be a tool for the magisters’ ambitions. 

Cloaking in shadow was a skill that took years of training to accomplish. Everyone carried some spark of magic in them, some connection to the Fade. Only in mages did this spark take on a new awareness. To be a mage was an all or nothing shift in awareness. Though a mage might not have much more magical ability than the non mage next to them, some key difference Solyn had not been able to explain clearly allowed mages to tap into those energies as others could not. For all non mages, that connection to the Fade could be manipulated but only after years of intense training. For some thieves, that little spark of magic could be channeled into pulling Fade shadows around them. 

Years of meditation and practice at grace needed to culminate into an understanding of shadow, of becoming part of the strange between state of existing yet insubstantial to light. Pulling shadows was hard to maintain and required constant concentration. Once learned, it only took a second or two to engage. It started with a brief meditation on the paradoxical state of shadows, vacant yet present, on the shifting of light that slid between the realms of conscious thought and dream. Movement was almost impossible when anyone first learned this skill. Each level had to be built with discipline and near endless hours of practice. Pulling shadows was like learning how to juggle daggers, then learning how to juggle daggers and walk a tightrope, then learning how to do both of those while dancing a jig on a wire, and, most importantly, never to fall no matter how the wire swung. 

It was a skill that many more people could learn to do, as many people could learn juggling but rarely took the time necessary to learn. But that was just one aspect of training, and not everyone could walk a tightrope. Cloaking was a skill that was hard to learn, and one that could be easily defeated. Tacks on a floor would cause any but the most proficient to lose focus. Foul weather, such as rain, would leave an obvious outline along with a trail of mud or the squishing of grass. A squeaky floorboard was enough to break alert a vigilant guard. The wealthier the place, the better the guards, the more they know what to look for and have defenses in place. Given these limitations, his mother had said it was still a useful skill, but one slip, just one, and a person could wind up exposing themselves right in front of a legion of hostile combatants. 

I am shadow, Raviathan chanted as he pushed out all other thoughts. His mind swirled in veils of grey and black. Invisible as only a single shifting shadow among many, Raviathan snuck close enough to overhear while staying behind a low fence as an extra precaution. Since Alistair had to go around the fence, they arrived at roughly the same time. At least he didn’t have to worry about keeping his footfalls silent. There weren’t any dry leaves or twigs, and the sounds of refugees and barking dogs were loud enough to cover the creaking of his ill fitting armor. From further in the town, Raviathan could hear the sounds of a woman sobbing, a child crying for a parent, the far off angry shouts of a man. The town was in crisis, and the refugees were adding to the panic. 

Looking put upon, Alistair greeted the templar with a mild, “Ho there.” 

The templar guard was in full armor: the purple and gold robed skirting, a helm that showed only shadowed blue eyes and the suggestion of a mouth, and a torso encased in heavy plate with a stylized flaming sword etched on the front. It was hard enough being around Alistair, but Raviathan hadn’t realized how much more intimidating templars were in full regalia. “Town’s full to bursting. You’ll find nothing here.” 

“Oh, um,” Alistair fumbled. “Well, we’re just travelling through. So, why are there so many refugees here?” 

“Haven’t you heard?” the templar asked indignantly. “Darkspawn have taken over the Wilds. The southern area is swarming with them. After the Grey Wardens got King Cailan killed at Ostagar…” 

“The Grey Wardens did… what?” Alistair asked in shock. 

Raviathan almost lost his concentration and had to calm himself to maintain the cloaking. He hoped Alistair had enough wits not to say anything stupid. The templar’s muffled voice responded, “Surprised to hear that myself, but it’s what Teyrn Loghain said. He and the arl have gone north to Denerim. Damn shame leaving everyone in the gulch like it is.” 

“Who-Who’s in charge then?” 

“The Chantry has been trying to organize the town to evacuate, but it’s just us. You’d best be on your way as well.” Alistair started to ask another question, but the templar waved him off becoming brusque. “Look, if you need something, go to the Chantry, but don’t cause any trouble here. You understand?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Alistair said in a daze. 

“Move along then.” 

Raviathan left back the way he came and uncloaked discreetly so as not to scare anyone. The air of panic was too high as it was. His mind whirled as he jogged over to the hillock at the edge of the refugee camp where Morrigan was setting a fire pit. Venger had already scrounged an old dead tree branch for a fire. Raviathan pulled a hatchet and began breaking it up just as he spied Alistair walking into the camp from the far side. 

“Loghain is blaming the Grey Wardens for Ostagar,” Raviathan said in a low voice to Morrigan. 

“Considering he quit the field, that is not entirely unexpected is it?”

“He could have just said the darkspawn overwhelmed their forces. No need to blame us.” 

The witch snorted. “And have any survivors accuse with different tales then? Why let you cast doubt when this way he has you on the defensive, and,” she said frowning at Alistair, “it would explain why he would turn away other Grey Wardens when the darkspawn so clearly are a danger.” 

Raviathan’s estimation of Morrigan went up. She was clever to be sure considering how little she knew of people. Her earlier plan of going after Loghain directly could be done if they had any skills in assassination, but Loghain would just be replaced by another despot. Urien Kendells had been hard on elves, enough that there were some drunken grumblings that would never go anywhere, but his son was worse. Unless they could somehow control who took Loghain’s place, make sure it was someone who would support the Wardens, there was no point. It was risk upon risk with no gain. So Morrigan wasn’t a planner, but she was occasionally good at understanding motivation. Something she picked up from her mother? 

That Loghain was using them as scapegoats shouldn’t have been a surprise, not after he quit the field, but it did substantiate that the general did so as a malicious strike against the Wardens. What frustrated Raviathan was that there was no reason for it. There had to be something Duncan didn’t tell him regarding Loghain and the Grey Wardens. The darkspawn were a threat, but if Loghain was willing to abandon Lothering, maybe he didn’t take the darkspawn seriously. But he was a tactician. He had seen the darkspawn for himself. It just didn’t make any sense. 

“We’ll be branded as traitors to the king,” Raviathan said. “It’s going to make getting around a lot more difficult.” Morrigan was already as conspicuous as a naked man in a Chantry. Her yellow eyes marked her, which was bad enough, but her odd dress drew the eye from far away. She might as well be screaming, ‘I’m an apostate’, and it made Raviathan nervous. There was too much pride in the woman, too much defiance for her own good. She knew she was an outsider and was rebelling from anyone’s judgment, which Raviathan could understand. As an elf among humans, he had done much the same at Ostagar, but it wasn’t a crime to be an elf. As he looked at her, he realized how petulant he had been at the old fortress, rebelling because he finally could. The difference was that her rebellion brought too much attention to all of them and the outcome would be far worse. 

They fell silent as Alistair came up. “The news isn’t good.” 

He recounted the short conversation while Raviathan and Morrigan played ignorant. When finished Raviathan said, “We need more wood. Alistair?” 

“What?” he asked, confused by the lack of outrage at the news. 

“Go get more wood,” Raviathan repeated with a harsher tone than he meant. Raviathan groaned inwardly, hoping the templar wouldn’t make a big deal out of this. The cold and stress were taking their toll, and he just didn’t care about being nice to the mage hunter. Just… just go away, Alistair. 

Alistair watched the elf for a moment before leaving down the other side of the hillock where there were other refugees scrounging for whatever would get them through the cold night. As Alistair’s grumbles died away Raviathan ventured, “If there is a commotion with the templars, you could turn into a bird and get away in time?” 

“I have done so before. ‘Twas one of the reasons I learned such a form to begin with.” 

“Is it hard to learn?” 

The witch shrugged. “As is any magic or skill. It requires time and discipline. To change into an animal form requires a fundamental understanding of the animal one wishes to turn into. You must understand the soul of the creature.” 

“What can you turn into? Besides a bird.” 

“Creatures of the forest, naturally.” 

“So,” began Raviathan, keeping his gaze on the task at hand but studying her in his periphery, “could you teach someone else?” 

“Certainly, but not you.” 

“No?” 

“It requires magical ability, of which, you are lacking.” 

Raviathan glanced around then knelt in front of the fire pit with his back to the rest of the camp, hiding the little pile of wood from view. He looked straight into Morrigan’s yellow eyes until he was positive he had her full attention. She frowned at him then gasped when the wood ignited in a controlled blaze. He whispered, “I don’t think Alistair knows about me. I’d like to keep it that way.” 

A small dark smile formed on the witch’s full lips. After a moment of watching the fire she chuckled. “Well, you are full of surprises. Alright. When we leave this town, we shall start the lessons.” 

They shared a conspiratorial smile then went back to work. Raviathan thought about Alistair as he continued to break up the log Venger had wrestled over. So the templar hadn’t turned in Morrigan at first chance, and there was still the possibility that he didn’t know about Raviathan’s power. That didn’t mean much yet. Alistair knew Morrigan could escape and could be waiting for a better opportunity. 

Biting his lip at the thought, Raviathan doubted he would ever trust the templar. There had to be some way to get rid of him. Maybe once Alistair got over Ostagar he’d be willing to go to the Mage’s Tower on his own. There was no way Raviathan was going to get near the place. If Alistair continued to be so needy, they could just ditch him at night while he slept. The templar was no good in the wilderness and wouldn’t be able to track them. Between Morrigan’s animal shifting and his own night vision, it would be easy to leave Alistair behind with no clue where to look for them. Raviathan didn’t look up as Venger dropped another log in front of him then trotted off. Raviathan thought of Alistair waking, baffled when there was no one around and left on his own. It was a dirty trick, and he was ashamed for having thought it. 

He reached absently for the new log and had his hatchet up to start chopping when he noticed the runes carved into the sides of what turned out to be a staff. “Morrigan. Have a look.” 

A dented tin pan was settled near their small fire and warming up more of those tough dried roots that were causing one of his problems. Raviathan was itching to get some less astringent fare. Together they looked over the staff running their fingers along the runes. Raviathan asked, “Can you read it?” 

Neither he nor Solyn ever used staves as that would have been an obvious giveaway of their abilities, but he knew one when he saw one. Solyn had said it had been difficult to give up the use of a staff as she had trained with one, but he never knew the difference having gone without his whole life. Morrigan’s staff was made of smooth, dark wood and well worn from handling. The krag, or ‘top’, of hers was charred from channeling energy. That happened when there was nothing but the natural wood to source the push of formed mana out, but Solyn said stone and metal, when worked correctly, made for more powerful and longer lasting staves. While the staff was not exactly damaged from focusing energy, charring did have a way of making the power channeled less focused. It was not much different than having a sword lose its edge and become scarred. The cheaper the metal, the quicker its wear. 

The type of materials used in creating a staff not only determined its quality but also the type of damage it did. While a mage could use nearly any staff if they had the sufficient power a particular staff required, specialists of a school favored certain materials. Lead was good for entropic magic, silver for creative and healing. Iron was a favored metal for primal, but add gold and it supported fire magic while tin supported electricity. Yew was the tree of sorrows which made it well suited for entropy, and willow for creative. Most of his spells were in the spiritual school, so rowan, holly, and rosewood were best. That was the extent of Raviathan’s knowledge on the subject as there had been little use to learn more. Solyn had once recounted what she knew of focus stones, precious or semi-precious stones set into the krag for focusing, but after an hour of hearing stone names he had no reference for, Raviathan’s boggled mind shut down. 

This one was gnarled, and though care had gone into the shaping of it, seemed more organic as if the wood had naturally grown this way. A slight pout played on Morrigan’s lips as she cocked her head to examine a rune at a new angle. “I think this track is about nature. Mmm, possibly earth, but more than that I cannot say. I’m not even sure what language it is. Nothing common to this area. These three symbols,” she said absently as she tried to place them. “I remember something of the like in one of mother’s books.” 

“Do you know what kind of wood it is?” 

Twisting the staff to get a better look at another line of rune inscription, Morrigan said, “I’m not as familiar with the woods beyond the Wilds. Hickory maybe? ‘Tis hard for me to tell. If hickory, I’d presume it’s a primal wood, but as far as the runes, it seems one of nature. Where did this come from?” 

Raviathan shrugged. “Venger brought it.” 

“Humph. In that case he’s already proven more useful than Alistair,” Morrigan said. 

Part of him wanted to admonish her, but what right did he have? He had been just as mean to the templar. The other part wanted to return her smirk. Aside from a few skirmishes, the templar had been useless so far. In the end Raviathan simply said, “Hang on to it then. It might prove useful.” 

“You don’t want to sell it?” 

“Who’d buy it?” Raviathan said. “To anyone but a mage, it’s just a stick.” 

Her yellow eyes watched him, sized him up with new interest now that she knew he was a fellow apostate. “You don’t use a staff then.” 

“Never have. Maybe in the Wilds where you don’t need to pass off as normal it’s fine, but not in cities.” 

Morrigan opened her mouth to say something, but Raviathan shushed her at Alistair’s approach. Alistair frowned when he saw their conversation stop as he came near. “Here’s more wood,” he said, dumping it on the site. 

“Hey,” Raviathan admonished as the thin branches scattered about. “Watch it.” The apostates shared a look of mutual annoyance before gathering the wood in a neat pile. Alistair sat with a heavy thump and snatched a root from the tin. His nose scrunched up in silent complaint at the taste, but he was more put off by their exclusion and made no secret of it. Take the hint, Raviathan thought bitterly. 

Instead of snapping at the templar like he wanted to, Raviathan took a root to chew and gazed out at the refugee camp. The people here were desperate and already worn out. A few were marshaling themselves for the next push north, but many were becoming resigned to squatting for the foreseeable future. He had only a brief glimpse of the horde from the bridge as they raced across, and his mind still refused to fully believe that crawling mass on the field had all been darkspawn. It had to be a trick of his eyes. The smoke and heat off of those projectiles had to be what made the field waver. The whole valley had been moving. It… it couldn’t have been that many. But if it was… No matter what, this village didn’t stand a chance against a horde, and with the arl gone, there was nothing. 

“It’s just a guess, but I think everyone here knows the darkspawn are coming,” Alistair observed with a lilt of sarcasm. 

Morrigan huffed. “Listen to how they moan and wail and gnash their teeth. Pathetic.” 

Though irritated by her attitude, Raviathan spoke in a low voice. “They’re tired. And scared. And have no resources. What do you expect of them?” 

He was well versed in desperation. Too many times he had seen his own kin give up before they even started. As a child he had wondered, then been frustrated by the injustice of it. If only they would move! Do something. Not just bow their head and take it all. Not let their ears get pulled. But it was never that simple. From his periphery he could see Alistair watching him again as he had that morning. Raviathan clenched his jaw, trying to ignore him. Watch someone else, you creepy templar. 

“So they should throw up their hands in defeat?” She replied, her tone raised an octave. “Lay down and let the darkspawn take them? This foolishness is because they trusted another with their safety rather than trust in themselves. Now that this arl is gone, they are less than helpless.” 

Even with an arl, there was never any guarantee for their safety, Raviathan thought. Had Loghain coerced the arl into leaving? It seemed unconscionably irresponsible to leave all these people, people whose care the arl was charged with, left to wallow like a deer trapped in a sink hole. Struggle as they might, it made no difference, but Morrigan knew nothing of the kinds of dangers that existed among men. She was such an odd combination of cynical and naïve. “Why they’re in this situation is irrelevant,” Raviathan said. “What matters is what they do next.” 

If Duncan’s stories were true, they should burn the village. Better to burn it to keep it out of darkspawn hands. Though some villagers might be injured by that, it would also force them out and north. If they left the village as is, more would die and all the resources left here would only make the darkspawn stronger. Don’t give an inch. Burn everything so they have to travel through a wasteland and deplete their resources. 

There had been a lot of controversy among the soldiers whether darkspawn took captives. It seemed unlikely, and the lieutenants had said those were only rumors, but if they were true, then every villager left here had a lot more than a holding or some furniture at stake. If it was true, what did the darkspawn do with them? Leaving aside that uncomfortable question, Raviathan knew that the pragmatic, if brutal, thing to do was set fire to the place. The Wardens do what they must. 

“So. What’s next?” Alistair asked. 

Burn the village? The Grey Wardens were already being blamed for the death of the king. Burn the village on top of that? It wasn’t like their name was going to be any more tarnished, but something like that, the last two Grey Wardens terrorizing a hapless village, would kill any support they might still have. There must still be some who would hold the reputation of the Grey Wardens over Loghain’s word. When news would inevitably get out, they would not only have a price on their heads but every farmer from here to Highever itching to turn them in. 

In any case the point was moot. There was no way Raviathan was going to be able to burn the village. It was an act that required a lot more mettle than he had. It was like the treaties, or the Archdemon, or the Blight, or that blighted king. It was too big to be real. He tried to imagine going about with a torch. If the villagers and refugees didn’t immediately pounce on him, the templars would string him up within the hour. If he did it on the sly at night, it would only cause panic and hurt people. Like it wouldn’t do that during the day. Those stories Duncan told him- they happened to heroes, men and women who stood fifteen feet tall, decorated in metal armor of purest white, and wore a coronet of fire that blazed bright as justice. He wasn’t a hero. He was just some little elf, a dock worker for Andraste’s sake, in way over his head. The actual reality of trying to do something like that was overwhelming. 

“Try the inn and Chantry,” Raviathan said. “They’ll have more information than the refugees.” At the witch’s scowl, Raviathan added, “Morrigan, why don’t you stay here. We’ll make this our base camp.” That seemed to mollify her. 

They were just finishing their meager lunch when the merry mabari trotted up with a rag hanging from his mouth. He presented the odd article to his master with the pleased air of a fat noble at banquet. 

“Pantaloons?” Raviathan raised his eyebrows in surprise at Venger’s next gift. His first worry that his dog was a thief, and Maker knew they didn’t need any further complications, was assuaged as he gingerly examined the article. They were dirty as if they had been left outdoors for a month, not dirty as if taken from a close line or basket and dragged on the ground. “Um… well.” Venger’s little stub of a tail started wagging hopefully, so Raviathan injected a bit more warmth into his voice. “And who doesn’t need a good pair of pantaloons? Thanks, Venger.” 

Morrigan rolled her eyes, but Alistair seemed more enchanted by the dog. 

The striped gold and red fabric was good quality, finer than anything Raviathan had ever owned, but only foolish nobles wore the articles anymore. He didn’t know anything about the Arl of Lothering. Maybe the man was a fop. By the size of the thing, the previous owner must have had a giant ass. 

“We could sell it,” Alistair offered as the dog bounded away to relieve himself on a tent. Raviathan wanted to yell at him to quit it, but that would only attract negative attention when no one seemed to notice. Maker, please don’t let this dog be a mistake. 

Raviathan held up the article with two fingers stretching out the waist. “Morrigan and I could each fit into one of the legs. I’ll admit refugees can’t be choosy, but the fabric it too fine for anything but a woman’s dress, and what woman wants to have something that’s been this close to a man’s ass as her bodice?” 

“It’s almost large enough to make a tent out of,” Alistair said, with a little grin. 

“Seems most fitting a tent for you then,” Morrigan sneered. “An ass…” 

“Morrigan!” Raviathan snapped. He didn’t like the templar, but enough already. “Come on, Alistair,” Raviathan said getting up. “Looks like most of the town in on the other side of the bridge.” 

They made their way in relative silence, Raviathan listening to snatches of conversation from the refugees. Alistair was behind him, probably still watching him. Raviathan felt like he had a hulking black cloud tailing him. He held his breath as he passed the templar guarding the entrance to the city. Aside from a casual glance, he kept his attention forward, praying over and over that the man wouldn’t notice him. How sensitive were templars? Could they feel the magic in him? Should they have found another way into the town? Alistair hadn’t been able to tell. Had he? 

Once they were past the guard, a closed in feeling pressed into Raviathan. That was stupid. Aside from two weeks, his whole life had been spent in a city, but here he was feeling trapped. Too many templars milled about. Morrigan might be able to fly away, but what were his exits? He scanned the area, fantasizing briefly about climbing up the side of the Highway in escape. They didn’t notice. Just don’t do magic. They’ll never know. He took a deep breath, held it, and slowly let it go. The templars won’t know. They’re busy, and we’re not staying. 

“Mooother!” By the bridge a young boy in dirty clothes blubbered. He had shaggy brown hair and there were wide tear tracks mudding up his cheeks. Raviathan hesitated. If the child were an elf, it wouldn’t be a problem, but as he approached he half expected a large human to come barreling at him yelling, ‘get away from my son, knife ears!’ The ends of the boy’s full mouth were turned down in the cutest little pout though. 

“Hey,” Raviathan said. “You’re looking for your mother?” The child took three quick gulps of air and wiped a hand across his cheek only managing to smudge the mud around. “Well now. She probably can’t find you underneath all that dirt.” Raviathan took out a rag and dipping it in the small canal. He wiped the child’s brow, careful around his eyes and down his cheeks. “Just imagine. She’s looking everywhere and can’t tell you apart from a hill. What’s your name?” 

“R-robby.” 

Maker’s mercy. There was even dirt on the back of the boy’s neck. What did shems do, roll in the stuff? “Yep. That’s probably it. She walking around yelling out ‘Rooobbyyy’ wondering where you are.” At least that got the boy to stop crying. Raviathan took the boy’s hands to clean before he tackled the runny nose. “She looks over at that hill and this hill and the hill over there and wonders where you are. And where did that new hill come from?” Robby hiccupped a little laugh and Raviathan finished cleaning the child’s jaw, chin, neck, and finally nose. “She might be able to find you now. Here. You keep this.” Raviathan handed the child the rag. “Now. What does she look like?” 

“Um. She’s tall and has really bright red hair.” 

Red hair was very unusual among shems but rather common with elves. Human women with red hair were sometimes considered loose, which Raviathan thought terribly unfair. People can’t help what they look like. In any case, that would make her easy to find. “What about your father?” 

“He went with William to another farm hold, but they should be back by tomorrow.” 

So the boy wasn’t a refugee then. If his father was a farmer, and likely a strong man, he might have left to keep from being pressed into the arl’s service. “You’ve no brothers or sisters? Where’s the rest of your family?” 

“It’s… it was just me and mother,” Robby said looking all the more frail for being alone. “Everyone was gathered because of a big Q and then there was pushing and I lost her hand and I haven’t been able to find her since.” 

A big Q? “What’s a Q?” 

The child looked like he was going to start crying again, so Raviathan knelt down to hold his hand. 

“He’s just outside the village. In a cage.” 

What in the Maker’s name was a Q? An animal? Raviathan scoured his brain for any animal that sounded remotely like ‘Q’ and could only come up with quail, but that didn’t make any sense. Porcupine? That wouldn’t draw a crowd. A blighted porcupine? Later, he thought. “And you’ve been on your own since?” 

Robby nodded, and his face crumpled. “I don’t like be-ing h-home by my-myself.” 

“Shh, shh.” Raviathan coaxed and squeezed his hand. “There now,” he said, taking the rag and folding it so he could wiped the boy’s face with a clean section. “It’s going to be alright. We’ll find your mom. And your dad’s going to be back tomorrow. You just have to be brave until tomorrow. You can do that, can’t you? You can make your father real proud by being brave.” 

It took a minute to calm the boy down. It sounded like Robby had been on his own for at least a day. That didn’t bode well, and Raviathan always felt uncomfortable lying to children when it was something serious. If the boy’s mother was well, she should have gone back home. In truth, this boy would likely never see his mother again, but right now he just needed a little comfort until his father returned. “Are you hungry?” At a solemn nod, Raviathan opened up one of the pouches he had taken from the bandits. A few coppers were usually enough to buy a meal, but considering the inflated food prices, Raviathan decided to give the boy a silver. “Here. Get a meal and then go to the Chantry. One of the mothers will take care of you until your father returns. Okay?” 

The little eyes went round. “A whole silver!” He turned the scarred coin around looking at the seals then gave Raviathan a skeptical narrowing of eyes. “Are you really an elf?” 

Where had that come from? “Did my ears give me away?” 

A little confused frown puckered the boy’s face, and he looked back down at the coin. “My father says elves aren’t very nice, but you’re nicer than anyone else here.” 

“Thanks?” Ah well. He was a child. “Go on now.” The boy scampered away, and Raviathan started for the bridge. Only then did he remember Alistair. He had a brief second of panic. Had he left to turn them in? No. Alistair was leaning against a nearby house watching him. For love of the bloody Maker! Watch someone else. Raviathan turned away feeling a knot of tension in his shoulders. He flexed his shoulders back trying to ease it and crossed the bridge. Why was he embarrassed? So the mage hunter had seen him comfort a child. There was nothing to be embarrassed about. 

Once they moved further into the village, Alistair started talking to Venger who responded with happy barks. Raviathan put aside his uncomfortable feelings and was glad Alistair had broken out of his constant mope. Maybe he could finally get some answers. Had Alistair always wanted a dog? He tuned them out and listened instead to the rumor mongers by the inn. Loghain was blaming the Grey Wardens. The two had some details wrong, well, a lot of details wrong, but it did confirm Raviathan’s worry that they were going to have to keep low while they were in Ferelden. 

What did that mean for the treaties? The elves were already solitary, so that might be the place to start. So were the dwarves, but travel to Orzammar might be difficult if the Bannorn was hostile. Would they care about Fereldan politics? Would they be more willing to listen to Loghain? Surly the man would send an emissary to the dwarves. What about the mages? Raviathan didn’t know much about them other than the Chantry was heavily involved and the Circles throughout Thedas were prisons. If the party did remain together, he would have to convince Alistair to go to the Tower alone. 

Worse and worse.


	37. Crossroads – Tainted Hopes

Glancing around to find no one watching them, Raviathan ducked into a narrow alley that led to a small, dead garden hidden well away from the rest of the village. Alistair’s brows rose, but he didn’t comment. Raviathan nibbled at his lip, but he had to know. “Alistair, how well can templars sense magic?”

“I said I wouldn’t turn Morrigan in, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

One worry out of many. “If an apostate is dressed normally, would you be able to tell they’re an apostate?”

Alistair shook his head. “No. Main way to tell is if somebody does magic, which is pretty obvious to everyone then.” Alistair watched him again, a pensive tightness to his forehead. Reluctantly, he whispered, “I’m not supposed to say more. Secrets of the Order, but… There are higher-ranked templars. The ones who focus on developing ways to defend against mages. Some of them can knock a mage out.” 

“How?”

Alistair shrugged. “I know the basic theory, but I haven’t learned the skill myself. Takes a lot of practice and time to learn. From what I understand, they disrupt a mage’s connection to the Fade. A mage will die if they lose too much of their magic. What the templars are able to do isn’t enough to kill them, but it takes their magic away for a time.” 

Raviathan went cold. That’s how the templars were able to subdue Solyn. 

“Are you alright?” 

Raviathan glanced up to see the concern in Alistair’s expression. He waved a hand. “Tired from the walking, the taint, and I need some real food.” 

“I’m ready to eat an ox.” Alistair did look pale and drawn. Raviathan had thought that the effects of grief, but remembering Duncan’s appetite, Alistair must be starved after a week of roots and a few bites of squirrel. 

“That ability, you said only very experienced templars can use it?”

Alistair nodded. 

“Can someone that experienced sense magic?” Though unsure, Raviathan thought he saw a shadow of suspicion cross Alistair’s face. “I know you don’t like her, but I’ve given my word to protect her.” 

“Not as far as I know. If she didn’t look like such a witch, she could attend the Chantry Day Mass in Val Royeaux.” 

“Really?” 

Alistair relaxed enough to smile. “You’re welcome to wrestle her into a Chantry robe if you’d like and keep her in a convent. They’ll never know as long as she keeps her magic to herself. Actually, that’s not a bad plan.” 

“I don’t think she’ll thank me for that, but good to know.” Unless Alistair was lying in order to catch him as well. Raviathan rubbed his forehead. He just wasn’t good enough at reading humans to tell if Alistair was lying or not. The man seemed earnest. Was Alistair’s neediness because he was alone or to lull the apostates into complacency? “So Morrigan could actually walk into the Chantry with no one the wiser? They don’t have wards against magic or some such way to tell?”

“Why would they? Apostates avoid templars like drunks from Mother Henrietta on a temperance march. Morrigan, well, she’s going to arouse suspicion. She could claim she’s Chasind, but it’s best to keep her out of view.” 

Though modest by Denerim standards, the Lothering Chantry stood above all the other buildings in the town. Years of conditioning and fear did not release their hold so easily, and Raviathan still wasn’t sure how much trust he could place in Alistair. “Alistair, since you’re familiar with the Chantry, why don’t you see what you can find out from them. I’ll see what I can do to get some basic equipment and food.” 

A groan of longing met his words. “Real food? Oh, real food would be nice.” 

Raviathan’s mouth twitched. “We’ll see.” 

With an eye on Alistair, Raviathan made his way to a merchant selling out of a wagon who stood within view of the Chantry. As Raviathan walked over, the hard faced merchant shooed two hunched refugees away. This didn’t bode well. 

As expected, the merchant frowned at Raviathan as he approached. “Don’t even ask for charity, elf.” 

At least he wasn’t called knife ears. “Do you have food or tents for sale?” 

The merchant narrowed his eyes. Though not old, his face carried deep lines around his forehead and mouth. Like many of the refugees, he hadn’t shaved in days, the dark stubble giving him more menace. While that might have intimidated many, this man had nothing on the darkspawn. “Tents are two sovereigns. A bag of carrots or potatoes are a silver. Each.” 

“A silver! Were they watered with the tears of virgins?”

“Now don’t get smart with me.” 

“No, I want to know. Did you get a unicorn to vomit rainbows over the garden? Or perhaps you used an ancient dragon’s dung shat during the full moon as a fertilizer. Will the carrots let me see through a maiden’s clothes?” 

Pink touched the merchant’s cheeks. He drew himself up, leaning forward to push his bulk at Raviathan. “Do you not see the people here? There are those who are willing to pay, and if you can’t, then off with you.”

“Pay, yes, but this is robbery.” 

“The templars are right there. Keep giving me trouble, and I’ll have you taken out of the town and beaten.” The merchant raised his voice when there was a shout from the Chantry courtyard.

Raviathan snorted, hoping his unease at the threat didn’t show. “They can barely keep the town from panic, and you think they’ll protect a profiteer? It would solve a lot of these people’s problems if they overran your cart.” 

“I said get away, you nasty little knife ears.” 

Oh, that did it. “You think that little display intimidates me? Just last week I battled a creature with feet bigger than your whole body.” 

The merchant half turned away as if dismissing him, but Raviathan saw the bunch of muscles that betrayed his next move. When the shem’s fist struck out, Raviathan caught his wrist and twisted with the shem’s movement. With a kick at the unbalanced shem’s leg, Raviathan tossed the man to the ground, a knee on his chest and dagger pressed against this throat. He leaned down, increasing the pressure of the flat of the blade. “Understand this, you vulture. I don’t mind your making a profit, but you will not abuse people in need. And next time you want to punch some knife ear, remember that we aren’t all helpless. Are we clear?” 

The shem swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing above the dagger. “Yeah.” 

For a second, Raviathan considered the risk he had taken. Elves would have gone through the verbal battle without getting physical, but time and again, he had to remember to adapt to a human set of rules. In many ways he was just as bad as Morrigan. The sullen set to the merchant’s mouth left a lingering concern in Raviathan. The human would seek to have the ‘nasty little knife ears’ who had attacked him beaten, but what Raviathan had said before was true. The templars did not have the time to care about every incident. 

Apologize and try to mend this fence? No. This human would see weakness. Best to be civil but keep his convictions. Raviathan stood and offered a hand to help the shem up. The shem glared at his hand, but he took it. 

“Three tents, three bedrolls, canteens, a skillet if you have one, a few glass canning jars, a bag of carrots and potatoes, and salt.” 

Raviathan watched as the merchant put together the order. The cast iron skillet the merchant pulled out would be heavy, but with its high sides, it could double as a pot. It was good quality, already seasoned, and Raviathan considered the desperation of the person who had parted with it. Skillets like that stayed in a family for generations. “No jars. Five sovereigns for this.” 

“Four and thirty silver.” The shouts of someone near the Chantry grew louder. 

“Five and… I’ll throw in a bag of apples and half a bag of onions.” At Raviathan’s look, the merchant added, “Some garlic and a half pound of dried venison.” 

“Deal.” The price was high, but given the state of the town, no longer unreasonable. 

Raviathan left intending to drop the purchases off with Morrigan and hoped they could finally speak in private. Another apostate to talk to after all these years had him giddy. 

At a hand on his elbow, Raviathan turned to find an older priestess. The bones of her face stood out, her skin wizened, but she did not look unkind. Still, Raviathan froze, a knot twisting in his stomach. 

“Thank you.”

Raviathan almost didn’t catch her words when the shouting from the Chantry grew heated. He blinked in surprise. “For?” 

“That man. He has been a plague upon these people, the way he charges for goods he bought at a fourth of the price only a week ago.”

“Oh. It was nothing.” 

She made the sign of the blessing for him. Raviathan tried not to shift though discomfort made him want to hurry away. 

“He brings the darkness!” 

Raviathan glanced over at the shout and through the gate of the stone wall of the Chantry, saw Alistair backing away. Maker, what now? “Excuse me.” 

Rushing over, he watched as Alistair raised his shield as a huge Chasind stepped forward, a wicked war axe at the ready. 

“From the shadows they come! Devour the mists, the roots, turn the world against itself! 

“Stop!” Raviathan tossed his purchases by Alistair. Unburdened, he pushed at the wildling, the full weight of his body barely succeeding in getting the wildling’s attention. 

“Elfkin, the darkness sickens you as well. Plague, you bring.” 

“Stop this madness.” 

“Madness?” The wildling’s eyes flared wide in rage. His skin had the same deep earth coloring of the kennel master, and Raviathan wondered if they were related. “The black of under claimed my tribe. Witness borne as my bloodkin screamed and were swallowed by the black of under. All gone, elfkin.” He grabbed Raviathan’s arm, his squeeze strong enough to bruise. “How am I know myself?” 

“I’m sorry.” True sorrow tightened Raviathan’s chest. He and the wildlings had this in common then. If the Denerim alienage had been massacred, Raviathan doubted he would be able to maintain his sanity. He laid a hand on the wildling’s arm. “I’ve lost dear ones too. I know this pain.” 

A sob escaped the wildling. He knelt on one knee, and for the first time, Raviathan noticed there were a score of frightened refugees and a templar watching them. The wildling’s mercurial emotions startled Raviathan as well, but he didn’t have the same fear all the others displayed. “My wife. Her return to earth will be to a poisoned land. A sacrilege her soul to suffer. The fire god’s old women will not cleanse her passage.” 

Understanding dawned on Raviathan. The priestesses here would not give him the ceremony he desired so his dead wife’s soul would pass and not remain stuck, forever haunting the swamp. Dull anger rose in him. Those selfish women. Would it have cost them so much to listen to this man and set his mind at ease? He took hold of the wildling’s hand. “Come with me.” 

Like and overgrown child, the large wildling let himself be led by the hand. Raviathan sat him down outside the Chantry wall where few people loitered. “Stay here. I’ll go inside and get a pouch of the sacred ashes. My companion is a, well, he’s like a priest. We’ll purify you with ashes and he’ll say the words to make sure your wife is at peace. You will wait?” 

“Elfkin. I have not words for this kindness.” 

“Just… stay here.” Not only was the Chasind’s speech like a fascinating riddle, Raviathan had so rarely been treated with respect by humans, he couldn’t help but like the wildlings. 

He found Alistair where he had left him, this time picking up the last of the equipment Raviathan had bought. “Can we get some ashes from the Chantry?”

“I… suppose.” Alistair blinked at him. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Talk to that man. He kept yelling all this weird stuff about under darkness and was coming at me with that axe.” 

If I had an axe, templar… “I just talked to him. Do you know a chant to say at a funeral?” 

“Funeral? Whose?”

“The wildling’s wife.”

“What, is he going after her with the axe now?” 

“No, she was killed by darkspawn.” Maker. Did this idiot think Raviathan would leave a woman to be slaughtered? “He just wants something so that he knows her soul will be at peace.”

“Ohhh,” Alistair said as comprehension smoothed his brow. “I… maybe? There’s the… no, that’s the lament for the wayward. Um, let’s see. There’s that one with trials of the soul… no. Er, well, I suppose I could ask.” 

“You never memorized a verse to say for the fallen?” Was this a display of arrogance that templars would never fall, callousness for the mages they killed, or just more of this idiot’s ineptitude? 

“Have you ever seen a full, unedited version of the Chant? It’s bigger than my shield and weighs a stone if a pebble. That’s a lot of verses to memorize. The one for how to dispose of a defiled goat is no picnic, let me tell you. Apparently that was a problem back in the day. Not that I wanted to know the details of that sort of, um, business, but a few of the other novices were quite keen to learn. Master Tretchenbalm said that even the obscure verses had merit and that he used this one when…”

Raviathan eyed him, his mouth slightly parted as the templar prattled on.

When Alistair opened his mouth to continue, the elf held up his hand. Of all the humans to be stuck with. What kind of templar was this? After weeks of silence, this is what comes out of his mouth? 

Off-footed, Raviathan turned and went into the Chantry. He heard Alistair pick up their equipment, a muttered curse following the thud as he dropped something, before hastening to follow. Not until he was inside did he remember he had avoided Chantries his whole life. Of course that shem, that ridiculous shem, would make him forget. 

Had Raviathan not walked through the ruins of Ostagar, the Chantry would have been the most impressive building he had ever seen. Thick wooden timbers smoothed by decades of use stood with stone and freshly white washed plaster. In the dim light, echoes of reverent voices carried through the main chamber, the sound filling the space without overpowering the hushed calm, so at odds with the chaos outside the walls. Despite the panic of refugees or hurried footsteps of priestesses, the large chamber emanated peace. Though he was loath to admit it, Raviathan understood why humans would be attracted to such spaces. 

Show no fear. Raviathan tried to keep his breaths long and slow or the sudden rush of blood would turn into trembling hands and voice. Don’t let them see you panic. Give nothing away.

Templars in full armor gathered in the center aisle. Show no fear. If he turned and left now, that would bring suspicion. Raviathan’s mind raced with desperate plans if escape was necessary. If he could get out the doors, the chaos of the refugees might help, but he would have to be quick. Plans rose and fell in his mind like frightened birds scattering from the toll of a bell. Fear quickened Raviathan’s heart until it hammered in his chest, audible as a drum through his racing blood. Maker help me, if Alistair decides to turn me in now, I’m done. There would be no escape, not from these odds. 

When a templar’s gaze fixed on him and Alistair, Raviathan was sure his heart would stop. His hands started to shake with the need to run. They do know. Alistair, that traitorous fiend, they know! Why didn’t I let him die? 

The templar strode to them. Raviathan stood, frozen, watching the templar move with the same fascinated horror as he had watched the ogre. He could already see the templar’s sword pull free, the sword of mercy as the faithful would say. There was no way to warn Morrigan. She would be killed too, all because of this bastard. 

“You were the ones who killed the bandits.” 

Raviathan blinked. Hand on hilt and ready to bolt, he needed a minute to make sense of the templar’s statement. Alistair looked at him, expecting him to respond, but when Raviathan stayed quiet, he stammered, “Uh, yes. I… well, it was rather quick.” 

The templar laughed. “Indeed. Once I saw they had returned, I was crossing the field to deal with them. Again.” He shook his head in regret. “They’ve been tormenting the refugees, stripping them of already stretched resources. As if the Blight wasn’t enough for these people to deal with.” 

He motioned them forward to the other templars. The man in charge was darker than Raviathan, possibly of Rivaini ancestry. 

“These are the men I was telling you about, the ones who took out the bandits.” 

The leader smiled at them. “Then we owe you a debt.” 

This was all too weird for Raviathan. The aftereffects of adrenaline made his legs jittery and hands shake. Though nauseous, he wasn’t going to lose the scant bit of breakfast roots here. Raviathan hoped his shakiness wouldn’t show. Alistair glanced at him nervously. To tell the templars the elf was an apostate or because Raviathan wasn’t acting as he should? 

“Thank you,” Raviathan said. Maker’s ass, he couldn’t tell what was normal anymore. The lead templar hadn’t been addressing him, looking more to Alistair, but Alistair wasn’t taking an initiative. 

With a small grin, the lead templar crossed his arms and bowed. “I am Ser Bryant, and I believe our thanks are to you.”

This isn’t real. A templar bowing to him? Holy Maker, if only he could tell his mother about this. Solyn would have cursed him for a fool for getting himself in this situation, but his mother would have laughed for weeks. Thinking of his mother gave him courage.

“We don’t have much to compensate you as all our efforts are being put to evacuating the town, but we can...” 

Raviathan raised his hand in protest. “No, that’s fine. I know you must be busy, but if we could ask a few questions?”

The other templars had moved on to their duties while the three of them spoke. The bann and all his men were gone, joined to Loghain’s army. All that was left to keep the peace and organize an evacuation were the few templars and priestesses. With such thin resources, Morrigan would be safe enough.

“You are not typical refugees,” Bryant said. 

“We served at Ostagar.” At Bryant’s disbelief that an elf was in the army, Raviathan elaborated in a whisper, “Alistair and I are the only two Grey Wardens left.” 

Bryant’s lips parted as he searched their faces for the truth. “Loghain has blamed the Grey Wardens for the king’s death.” 

“We wouldn’t…”

“What the teyrn said cannot be the truth, not of the Grey Wardens.” Bryant took in a deep breath as he pondered. “The Hero of River Dane. I do not understand this. He would never put Ferelden at risk, but his reputation against the Order of the Grey? This is most strange.” Lips pursed, he gave them a worried look. “There is a warrant out for the capture or death of any Grey Wardens who may have survived.” 

Raviathan and Alistair exchanged a worried glance. “You will say nothing?” 

“No. Not with all that is happening. What the teyrn will gain from this, only he knows, but the darkspawn are most immediate. Tell me, is this a raid or a true Blight?” 

“A Blight, I’m afraid. There is no doubt of that.” 

Bryant shook his head, his forehead lined with distress. “Maker’s breath. Grim days lay ahead.” Straightening, he signaled for an approaching templar to wait until their conversation was finished. “I cannot help you. Not openly when there are rumors of treason.”

“Not openly,” Raviathan trailed. Was he really talking with a templar? It was like having tea with a reasonable demon. Soon swans would be black and the sun rise from the west. 

A half smile tugged at Bryant’s mouth. “Indeed.” 

Raviathan gave him a nod, and left feeling as if everything he knew about the world was turned upside down.

~o~O~o~

“Morrigan? I have to talk to Alistair. Would you mind making dinner?” After the Chantry, settling the Chasind, and setting up their camp, the evening dark stole the last rays of sun. While the swamp mists had sucked the warmth from their bones, clear nights like this brought cold so sharp it felt as if the very air could shatter like glass.

She blew out a breath, which made her bangs flutter. “I suppose.” 

Her form glowed in the firelight, one of many fires burning to counter the twilight gloom. Other refugees huddled close together for what little protection that gave them against thieves and bandits. A false security, but one of desperate people. 

They walked along the edge of the Imperial Highway, the wall looming like a white cliff to their right. Alistair stumbled in the darkness and would have walked into the river had Raviathan not stopped him. Were all humans this blind at night? 

“What did you want to talk about?” 

Raviathan knelt by the river to wash his hands. The water felt like recent ice melt though the season was too early for that. How he wished to be clean, clean of the filth of travel, clean of the taint. “I’m a Grey Warden now. I want to know what Duncan couldn’t tell me before and didn’t have a chance to afterwards.” 

When Raviathan glanced up at Alistair’s silence, he realized he had said the wrong thing. Pain, naked as the moon, cut deep into Alistair’s face. 

Anger flared in Raviathan. Now that they on their own, he and Alistair were like lost children. In his better moments he knew he was being unfair to Alistair, who was overcome with the loss of his comrades, but he needed the more experienced Warden to at least give him some clue about the rest of the Order. Raviathan knew he couldn’t do this task laid at his feet. Not even in childhood fantasies would he be able to stop an archdemon or the Blight. He needed this man for information, some sort of guidance, and all the shem could do was weep. 

“Alistair.” 

“I… I’m fine. I will be. I’m sorry.” 

Raviathan’s jaw clenched as he took as slow breath and released it. “What can you tell me about the rest of the Order?” 

“Not much. I’m not even sure where their bases are. Only Weisshaupt, but that’s in the Anderfels.” 

“Not the Wardens of Orlais, the Free Marches, or Nevarra? None of them?”

“Um… Orlais has the most Wardens outside of the Anderfels. Most of them are mounted, so they’re the most mobile, but that’s about it. I met a few, one at my Joining.” 

“What about the darkspawn?”

“What about them?”

“Where do they come from? Are there more than the kinds we saw? What do you know about their magic? Do you know how they communicate?” 

Alistair found his way to a rock to sit on. He clasped his hands, his forearms resting on his thighs. “Well, there’s the Chantry version about the darkspawn, that it was the Tevinters’ hubris that brought them.” 

As Alistair continued, Raviathan’s dismay grew. How had this man learned so little? Raviathan would have been pestering Duncan at every free moment for information. Alistair’s knowledge was even more limited than Raviathan’s little history. The templar didn’t know about the theories behind the Tevinters’ transgression, nothing more than darkspawn come from the tunnels under the earth. 

“Some of the older Wardens can understand the darkspawn a bit,” Alistair continued. “The taint grows stronger over time, so the darkspawn become clearer.” 

“What about the taint? It gives us immunity, but there’s more.” 

“Yes.” Alistair hung his head for a moment before straightening. “You’re new to it, but you’ll feel the darkspawn soon enough. And they can sense you as well. You see, the longer you live, the more the taint grows.” 

A lump of dread churned in Raviathan’s stomach at his words. 

“There’s no getting rid of it. Eventually, the taint will consume… everything.” 

“What does that mean?” He already knew, though. As soon as he swallowed the sin of the world, he had known. 

“Wardens don’t retire. We don’t grow old. It’s different for everyone, maybe twenty years, maybe thirty, but there comes a time when the taint will take us over.” 

Raviathan sat on the ground as tried to absorb the news. Twenty years? He would die at thirty eight? Maybe live to see his forties, but that was all. “What happens then?” His voice sounded distant to his own ears, as if someone else was manipulating his vocal cords. 

“We go mad. Start hearing the darkspawn all the time, develop mold patches. Before that happens, the nightmares come. That’s when we know it’s time. We go to Orzammar then, one last battle against the darkspawn before we die. The dwarves respect us for it.” A quiet sob hitched Alistair’s voice. “Dun… Duncan told me that he started having the nightmares.” 

So that was what plagued Duncan those last days. Raviathan had known about the nightmares, but not their cause. This validated his own hypothesis after he had taken the Joining, except he didn’t understand how his presence helped Duncan. Elves had a stronger connection to the Fade and were therefore more susceptible to demons disturbing their dreams. In defense, elves kept tight families so they could protect and shelter each other in the Fade. But if Duncan’s nightmares were caused by the taint… did the taint still have to follow the same rules in the Fade? If only Raviathan knew another Warden who was also a mage instead of this half-wit. 

“What else does the taint do?”

Alistair took a shuddering breath. “It makes us stronger.” Raviathan nodded. He felt that much already. “It also makes it impossible for us to have children.” 

Though the templar prattled on, Raviathan didn’t hear. Impossible to have children? No. That’s… not what he heard. Was it? No. Raviathan’s heart skipped a beat, a painful squeezing in his chest as if someone punched him. No. He could almost feel the fissure ripping apart his heart, the crack opening wider as his dream shattered. 

For three years, he had thought of his child. Ever since Fenella needed the tea to end her pregnancy. That had been necessary, but he had lain awake hundreds of nights since wondering about the child he could have had. Impossible then. They would have been cast out to the streets if any learned the two of them had been together, let alone conceived a child. She would have lost everything, any chance of a match, and would have likely end up a whore. His future would have been the same. He had seen enough shadows of his future at The Huntsman to know. 

But it was his child, his little one that clung to his dreams. All those hopes with Ness, but they were gone now too. A beautiful wife and child, a family. Completeness. The whole of his heart made real. All of that had died when Vaughan strode into the alienage, that stupid, fucking tyrant who ended Raviathan’s future with all the thought of a thief breaking a stained glass window. 

Not that Raviathan could have a wife as a Grey Warden, not that he would want to beget an illegitimate child who wouldn’t have the protection of a family. No… but, but the hope. Maybe one day… just, maybe he could leave the Wardens and find someone, or raise his child on his own. Feel the weight of his baby in his arms, know that soft baby smell of his own child, hear the little coos as she learned words. He wanted to hear her laugh. If only… 

Not this. The taint took his life, his future, took him away from his family, his love, dumped him in this middle of this disaster with no idea of what to do. This too? Did the taint have to take everything from him? The crack in Raviathan’s heart split into a web of fragments. The one thing he had left to wish for, gone. 

Raviathan’s fist landed against his thigh. Alistair, who had long since fell silent, jerked up. Before he could speak, Raviathan growled. “That’s all you know?” He shot to his feet. “That’s it? My appetite will grow? I could tell that from watching Duncan. Dear Maker, this is all you have learned? How long have you been a Warden? I’ve been a Warden for a few weeks, but I knew more about darkspawn than you before I had my Joining. Didn’t you have even the remotest sense of curiosity? Or are you just too stupid to remember anything?” 

“Now wait a minute…” Alistair stood, but there was no threat to his posture.

“Shut up! You idiot! All you’ve done so far is weep and moan. Maker damn me, I need a real Warden, and all I have is you, and what good are you? You don’t know how to contact the others, send messages, or even where they are. We’re lost here, and you’re as useful as a sundial in a cave.” 

Heart beating faster, Raviathan started to pace. “So fucking useless. You’re a templar, but can’t tell me anything about darkspawn magic. You’re a Warden, who can’t tell me about Wardens. Bloody Maker’s ass, you can’t even recite a basic Chant without asking for help. What in the Maker’s name have you been doing with your life? All you can tell me is that I’m going to die in twenty years? Andraste’s tits, it would be a miracle if we lived that long!” 

Without thought, he pushed Alistair. Alistair stumbled back, arms flailing, then dropped gracelessly back on the rock. Landing awkwardly, he almost fell but caught himself with a fumbled grab. When he looked back up, his flat shem eyes were wide. Would the templar start blubbering again? It was the one thing he was good at.

Raviathan glared at him, his teeth bared as he ground out the words. “The horde marches north. The archdemon is at our heels. Loghain is on the hunt for us. If we aren’t killed by the horde, who can sense us through the taint, we’ll have every bounty hunter after us, every noble who wants to curry favor, every starving villager ready to turn us over for torture or hanging for a few coppers. We’ll be lucky to survive another month. You think I give a damn about twenty years?”

Why had Duncan recruited this moron? Raviathan wanted to pour his rage out at the sniveling shem before him. Fists clenched, the fury tore inside him like a firestorm. Everything he had ripped away. Forsaken by the Maker. His kin beaten, raped, and abused, treated like mongrels. His wife gone to marry another. Disgust rose in Raviathan at his betrayal of Nesiara to mingle in the chaotic storm warring inside him. In that moment, he felt every long mile from his home, everything that held comfort. No hope for children. Left alone to be hunted. Alone. 

Alistair stared at him, his hurt and shock plain. Raviathan whipped around, his footsteps taking him away at a near run. He couldn’t stand to see Alistair anymore. Halfway to the town square, the loss that had fueled his anger came to the surface. Every last thing had been taken from him. The pain beneath the rage stabbed through his heart like a spike made of ice, leaving him so weak he was ready to fall to his knees. 

A whine caught his attention. Raviathan glanced down to see Venger trotting with him. That broke the last of his temper. He knelt and hugged his dog. “All I’ve got is you, pup.” 

Venger thumped his head against Raviathan’s chest. With the anger gone, a hollowness opened in Raviathan’s chest as he felt the pangs of mourning. There truly was no returning to his life before Vaughan, before the Wardens, before he had taken in the sin of the world. Ever since his Joining he had known that, but his mind was slow in recognizing all the implications that his Joining entailed. 

Raviathan sat with Venger, for how long he could not tell. How many nights had he thought about his child? Gone. Those dreams all gone. For the rest of his short life, the taint would constantly assault him until he died a violent death. Raviathan felt like he was finally giving up the last hopes he had any future happiness. His past dreams seemed so small now. Humble, but precious. His own family, a wife to share his days with, his child’s laughter in the evening when he came home. Gone. 

He stood, his movements slow to match his heavy heart. His Ness was alive and healthy. His father as well. That was all the peace he was allowed now. 

Leaving his darker thoughts aside, Raviathan considered what to do next. He wasn’t going back to their makeshift camp any time soon. At home, he would never be allowed out at night like this. All elves, unless escorted by a human, were round up by the guards for breaking curfew. However, with the refugees, Raviathan suspected few if any would care about him. 

As he wandered towards the town square, a woman with dark hair caught his eye. Two men in travel worn clothing kept after her. When one grabbed her hand, she spun to back away, fear clear in her eyes. “Please.” Her voice came out as a trembling whimper. “Leave me be.” 

“Do you need help, miss?” Raviathan let his voice boom. His cousins told him more than once that, when he wanted to, his voice sounded like a seven foot giant with the muscles of a bull. 

All three turned at the sound, the two men peering in the shadows for the source. Venger walked forward, a growl rumbling as the dog stared down the two men. 

“No harm meant,” one called. None of them lingered. 

Once gone, Raviathan stepped out of the shadows and patted Venger’s head. The dog lost all threat as a wide, panting grin broke. “Are you all right?”

“That was you? I thought… maybe one of the templars.” 

“Just me.” 

“I… thank you.” After her initial wide-eyed shock, she kept her eyes averted. 

Among elves, that often meant shame of some sort, that a person was either unwilling to acknowledge you or that they were not worthy of meeting the gaze of another elf. She was shaking though, which made Raviathan reconsider. “It’s dangerous with all the refugees. Would you like an escort home?” 

A nervous nod and then a shy smile that quickly disappeared answered him. “I… I’m Allison.” 

“Rav.” She seemed nice enough, so her averted gaze was not from shame. “Do I make you nervous?” 

“I-I’m sorry. All strangers do.” 

“No, don’t be sorry. With all that’s been going on, you have a right to be cautious.” He chatted her up as they walked, working hard to overcome her shyness. He earned more fleeting smiles as they approached her farmstead. Hoping he had gained enough of her trust, he made an offer. 

~o~O~o~

“What are you doing?” The way Allison plucked at the chicken, it would be in ruins. “Here, let me.” Raviathan shooed her away as he took over. 

“But, you wanted a meal as well as a wash.” 

“Indeed, and I’m going to get one. Take a seat.” He flashed a quick grin at her. “I like cooking.” 

“Oh?” She looked at him in surprise as if she had never heard of a man who could cook. 

“Sure. You take all these different things, each with their own qualities, smells and tastes, all unique, and blend them so each supports the other. Chicken tastes only so good. As does parsley,” he said, combining the parsley with the sautéed mushrooms and grated hard cheese. “But mix them together and they’re more than the sum of their parts. It’s almost like magic when you take something ordinary then transform it into this other thing that can make people happy.” He added salt and pepper then stuffed the mix into the deboned chicken. Into the oven it went with a pot of fall vegetables. “Don’t you feel that way about cooking?” 

She looked down with a trace of embarrassment. “I always thought of it as a chore. Something a wife does for her husband or daughter for the family.” 

“That’s no way to cook. If you think of it as a chore, it’ll taste like a chore. You have to cook with love.” 

A shy smile lifted the corners of Allison’s mouth. “With love?” 

“Of course. In one hour, you’ll be convinced.” She sat at the table to watch him as he took over her kitchen. He asked a few questions, “Where’s your flour? Where’s your sugar? Do you have any cinnamon or nutmeg?” as he continued with the efficient grace of a grandmother. 

As he worked, Allison’s thoughts drifted to her family, and the few moments of peace they shared. Though she was taken aback by his invasion of her kitchen, especially when he grabbed a jar of peaches to make a dessert, the savory scents soon warmed her little house, reminding her of the rare moments that came close to happiness. 

Her parents never yelled, and she had rarely been switched as a child, a much different fate than her rambunctious older brother who had a knack for trouble, but there was a coldness to her parents that made her shrink away as a child. She couldn’t remember one kind word her parents said to each other or her, no pats on the head or shoulder for good work. Displeasure lurked, quiet and brooding, and she remembered more often than not forcing down her meals with her stomach in knots from the tension. Failing to clean her plate only made things worse. 

Tired of the indifference, her brother had married a fiery woman and moved out at a young age thereby giving up his birthright of farmland. The two fought constantly, which sometimes turned violent when she hit him. On occasion he struck back. When that happened, her sister-in-law would carry her head in angry pride, inviting anyone to comment on the bruise. It was a badge of her suffering that she would use against her husband or any of the townsfolk who would talk. 

Allison wasn’t sure which was worse, the cold house or the violent one. They both made her feel small and helpless. Though she would never admit the shameful thought out loud, it was a relief when her parents died. Loneliness permeated the house, but it wasn’t as oppressive as violence or indifference. Occasionally, she took care of her nieces and nephew when her brother and sister-in-law got too bad. The children’s company, though too hectic after a day, alleviated her solitude. 

There were only a few elves in Lothering, and they tended to stay on the other side of the Imperial Highway where the slow moving river carried the town’s waste. They rarely ventured to this side, usually to barter with merchants but left soon after. Allison had only seen them on occasion. If possible, they were shyer than she, but they were beautiful, if strange. Slender and graceful, they kept their strange eyes downcast whenever they were in the market. 

Years ago, a young elven girl near Allison’s age, both of them years from their first blood, had talked with her while her parents traded the family’s stock of cabbage and root vegetables. Allison would never forget her large eyes that were the bright green of new grass or pretty pale skin that was almost translucent and baby fine. They had even played a game of stones until Allison’s mother had come out of the house and casually slapped her hard enough to knock her to the ground for playing with a filthy elf. The other girl cowed then ran away, and Allison had never seen her since. 

Now that her parents were gone, she felt slightly empowered by her defiance in letting an elf in her house. It was her house. Her brother would yell at her if he found out, but so what. He had given up on this house years ago. This elf was the prettiest she had ever seen, his angular features offset by a sensual mouth and skin like lacquered wood. Besides, he had been kind. All he had asked in return for his effort was some food, a chance to clean up, and a spot on the floor for the night. With the exception of the food, it had cost her nothing for a night’s security. 

She wondered at the sad expression he wore when he glanced back at her.


	38. Crossroads – The Maker’s Hand

Raviathan woke on a wooden floor in a panic. He stared around the strange room for a moment before remembering where he was. After Allison fell asleep, he had moved to the kitchen floor to keep warm by the stove where his clothing and armor dried. The fire had died down to embers and ash, but the thicker walls of the house held the heat in well. He couldn’t remember his dream, only shadows of being lost and afraid. After a quick breakfast of cheese, bread, and a jar of fruit, Raviathan scrawled a note to Allison then left the quiet cottage with Venger behind him.

Frost lay thick on the ground, the grass crunching with each step. Raviathan shivered in the darkness before dawn. Though Venger’s coat was short, the dog didn’t seem to mind the cold. The panic of the town lay still. Their fears, tangible as bitter roots, were silenced for a time. 

With only birdsong as his company, Raviathan walked through the town at random. Had this been Denerim, the guards would have taken him to prison for being outside the alienage during curfew. He was a Grey Warden, and yet, without another human to accompany him, he was back to being a second class citizen. However, with the coming darkspawn, townsfolk, guards, and refugees couldn’t be bothered with him. How in the Maker’s name was he going to get through Ferelden on this fool’s mission? 

If only Duncan were still around. More unpleasant news awaited judging by Duncan’s secretiveness and Alistair’s ineptitude. Raviathan could feel the taint inside himself like a parasite burrowing deeper, becoming entrenched deeper than his bones. A dull burning remained in his veins as the sin of the world settled into his body. It was still a foreign thing, but that wouldn’t last. The sin would become part of him. No escape. 

A blush of pink touched the night’s darkness as Raviathan found a small garden nestled into an older series of buildings. Perhaps one of the lords lived here. Strange how they kept this garden. Though kept clean with medicinal herbs in neat rows next to winter squash, an old briar patch twisted along the length of a low wall. The vines tumbled in on themselves, grey, thick with age. Thorns spiked in all directions ready to shred the unprepared. Why had this gnarled thing been left alone?

Raviathan lifted a hand to the ancient rose, his palm a hair’s breadth away from a nest of jutting thorns. Letting a tendril of magic loose, Raviathan explored, layer by year made layer of armored wood. Dead and more death. A battered army armed with swords and spears, yet it fell after long battles against neglect, weather, and time. 

He almost left when one last branch, hidden in the deep recesses, caught his attention. Even though the briar appeared to be a dried out husk, and the mass lay as long dead bones, a tiny sliver of life warred at the core of the rose. So faint. So easily crushed. One harsh winter, and the briar would truly be as dead as the sun cracked corpse it resembled. 

With the sun still hidden behind distant mountains, Raviathan created his first spell. Despite all the problems being a mage entailed, had he a choice in the matter, Raviathan would never give up magic. Magic had cost Solyn her life, the beautiful soul ending in a torturous death. Magic was a secret that could kill him even now with their status as Grey Wardens hidden. 

In his early childhood days he learned what a terrible and insidious thing a lie of omission was. His best friends could never know or they would be in danger too. At the age of five a wall had descended between them that only he was aware of. He loved his cousins, but he could never really be a part of them again. They might play or cry together, they could give comfort, but there was a distance forever put in place that had pained him in those tender years. 

Only his mother, aunt, and father knew, and as the women in his life died, his father remained a constant. Since Duncan’s death, his father lingered as the last witness. His father had never shamed him, not really, but he was always uncomfortable with magic, with having a son whose soul was a living bridge to the Fade. Cyrion never said anything, but his discomfort lingered in every shadowed glance or in the tension carried in his lined brow. 

Still, with all the danger and estrangement, Raviathan loved magic. When he didn’t think about his father’s disquiet or his friends, in the late hours when he and Solyn played their energies against each other, he knew what living was. He felt sorry for the rest, his parents and friends, who would never understand that feeling. They would never understand how brilliant the light inside felt, how it made his blood vibrate with electricity. Magic was primal, shown inside him like his own personal sun on a warm spring day--full of life and creation--as if happiness could be a physical thing and existed at the very center of him, like a second heart he could feel. 

When he was sad, using just a little power, just a lick of flame to light a candle, that little zing of energy could sooth him like arms of sunlight wrapping around him and lifting his heart. When his mother died and grief overwhelmed him, he had turned the iron stove red hot in order to feel the comfort of his magic. The heat had scorched the wall and cracked the windows. If Solyn and his father hadn’t been in the same grief he would have been punished. Solyn would have assumed his power was out of control. Instead he scrubbed and whitewashed the wall before the two came back home. The frost was blamed for the cracked glass. 

One time he was resting against his mom after a particularly grueling session with Solyn had left him exhausted. He was sweating and limp, but a quiet triumph held him after mastering a difficult spell that would shield him from magic. When Solyn sent a spell at him, he could withstand it behind a hair thin barrier of solid magic. That was the first real spell he was able to master instead of fumbling instinct. Solyn had given him a fierce look of pride for it.

He lay there resting his back to his mother’s front. Her long fingers, so nimble compared to his own still clumsy digits that couldn’t get the compositions on his harp right, brushed his hair. He could have fallen asleep like that, cuddled with his mother, but the feeling was too good to sleep. He wanted to savor it, his mother’s protection and sense of hard won accomplishment. He always associated his mother’s voice with his father’s pipe tobacco. He loved the smell of the pipe tobacco, smoky and spicy, sweet but not cloying. It was a good smell, rich and masculine. Her voice was like the feminine version of that smell. Low and cool, enticing with the wisdom of adults and exotic places. 

She asked softly, her lips near his ear so he could feel her breath, “What’s it feel like to do magic?” 

He raised his arm, still trembling from the effort of learning the spell, and pointed at the afternoon sunlight on a cracked window. The sunlight glinted in the cracks, making it look like a spider web made of light with faint rainbows. “It’s like that light on the inside. It’s what beautiful feels like.” 

Threading his arm through the layers of brambles, Raviathan placed a careful finger on that slender branch that still held the last remnants of life. Had he been certain that the darkened windows held no witness, he would have sent the magic from a safe space, but the spell’s bright flame had to be concealed by sending it through touch. 

That little life responded like a frightened child clutching at a parent. The briar shifted with newfound growth as his magic flowed forth. A thorn pressed into the palm of Raviathan’s hand, but he couldn’t stop the spell after feeling the last desperate hope of this little life. A rose. The briar was nothing to most, a plant lost to indifference, but another lesson his magic had brought was the knowledge that all living things struggled for survival. No matter how humble that life was, all living things were touched with the essence of the Fade. 

Raviathan watched as a bud formed. He smiled, withdrawing his hand as carefully as possible. Even so, more than one scratch scored his arm, leaving the points of long thorns red. The magic continued to pulse at the plant’s core, feeding it though the source of the power left. 

Silly little rose. You’re out of season. 

Solyn had warned him of the demons and abominations. If he ever gave into a demon he would become a mad thing incapable of control. The dark side to magic made everyone fear, though he had never felt the call of demons. She confided that she had heard them whisper to her after her sister died, probably expecting he was having the same experience. There was nothing though. No demons. No whispers to take the pain away or promises of power. Solyn didn’t believe him though it was the truth. The powers he called could be used for destruction, the stove was evident enough of that, but magic always remained a living, vibrant thing. It was too life affirming. Maybe if he heard demons he would feel differently. 

The taint though. It was becoming part of him. It was darkness made real, but it wasn’t at war with his magic. Odd these two forces inside him, hope and sin. 

The crawl of the taint, that sense of intense wrongness that he felt from the darkspawn, irritated like a mild acid that slowly ate at him, constant yet internal. There was no shying away from it. No escape. It reminded him of Duncan’s iron will. Now more than ever he understood what the Grey Wardens were about, why they fought and were willing to do whatever it took to end the darkspawn. Grey Wardens were like a race on to themselves. The consequence of the taint, and by extension the darkspawn, was as real as their own blood. Grey Wardens knew, knew better than any other what the taint was. Duncan knew. Now Raviathan did as well. He was becoming. 

Becoming, but what would be the end point? What happened to a body that lived with this poison for decades?

~o~O~o~

He dared look at his feet only once. When Alistair saw his long, bony feet, the toes were purple running into red half way to his heel. The dirty sock that had barely kept frostbite at bay was shoved back on in haste. The cold that had been holding back this winter now resurged in force. Numb and bleary, Alistair pulled boots on tired feet. Armor followed, but he was too big for the small tent and kept knocking things over or getting stuck. 

Squinting at the sun that seemed way too bright, Alistair rubbed at his scalp. While at Ostagar, he forgot how much over-bright sunlight could hurt, like it was sending a knife into his brain through his eyes. Morrigan fed small twigs to the fire like a crow hunched over a dead carcass. Maker’s breath, how could she not be freezing in those rags. Soup burbled in the pot. Alistair eyed it suspiciously. Instead, he grabbed one of two potatoes left cooking in the ashes. 

“Ow!” Alistair dropped it back in the ashes, waving his burning fingers to cool them. 

Morrigan smirked at him. “Did you never learn that objects left in a fire get hot?”

“Don’t. Just… just don’t.” 

“Such a wit in the morning. How refreshing considering your normal stone brained state.”

“Funny. You don’t look like a spider anymore, but you’re still as creepy.” 

“An attitude like that, no wonder your fellow left you last night.” 

Stung, Alistair let the argument go. Taking another chance with the potato, he tossed it back and forth until it cooled. He bit into it while still steaming hot, but if he didn’t get something into his stomach, he was sure he’d start devouring himself. His teeth turned hot, his tongue burning, but he got the half-cooked tuber down. A carrot and second half cooked potato stopped the cramping in his stomach. Maybe they could get some food at the inn? Something with meat to keep his stomach from hurting and, bless the Maker, a bit of cheese? 

Part of him felt like he didn’t deserve food. They were dead. His brothers. Duncan. Their bodies left to the darkspawn to be gutted, turned into sick altars. Marcus, who had sparred with him. Alistair couldn’t get rid of the images of mutilated bodies from the Tower of Ishal out of his mind. 

Those men didn’t deserve that. Not one of them. They were noble, good men. Some were a bit rough, but to be left on the field, their bodies desecrated? Maker, please, let them have died quickly. Guide their souls to your side. Please, Maker. Duncan was a good man. The best.

The pain crushing his chest competed with the incessant gnaw of his stomach. A better man than he would have the will to honor their passing with a fast. How could he even feel hungry with all this loss? Still, his stomach insisted on attention like a fly buzzing about his head. 

Grabbing the last potato and tossing it from hand to hand until it cooled, Alistair left their little camp, eating along the way. 

Could they get rid of Morrigan? For the life of him, Alistair didn’t know why she had agreed to come with them. Granted, she had been helpful in the two skirmishes they had. He could grudgingly admit that, but why was she here? Not because her mother told her to go with them, surely. She was mean, disagreeable, selfish, and those yellow eyes made his skin crawl, like she was a snake sizing up a mouse. Maybe she would get bored and slither away. If the Maker would bless them, that is. 

Was Rav still mad at him? When the elf said they should separate yesterday, Alistair could have sworn that for a moment the earth and sky flipped. Not abandoned, please. Not again. His vision burred as he tried to right what was going horrible wrong. Now the only person he had left was mad at him. He knew learning about the taint would be painful. If he hadn’t been so clumsy about it…

Alistair walked through the town, grabbing some Chantry notices as he passed. Loghain and Duncan and Cailan and the whole world was a mess that tumbled in his head without relief. This stiffness in his legs and back abated as he moved, but in this condition, the sword at his back was more decoration than weapon. 

In what passed for a town square, a grass field trampled to mud with a well at the center, a barely organized crowd of refugees had gathered. At the center an old woman presided, ordering people to beds or into new lines with no nonsense brusqueness. To his surprise, there was the very person he was looking for. The elf sat on a crate as one tattered farmer or worn family moved forward in the line. They left with fresh bandages or a jar of red concoction, all bowing in thanks as they left. 

“Miriam,” the elf called in that deep voice of his. Considering how many times he had heard the elf speak over the last week, that voice still surprised him. Though often soft spoken, that voice could snap out commands that had people jump before they realized what they were doing. Such a small man for that kind of vocal power, but Alistair understood why Duncan had recruited him. “Did that delivery of fresh bandages arrive yet?” 

“Looks like the boy is coming now.” The old woman coughed, a dry wheeze that sounded chronic. 

Raviathan gestured for the older man to sit. Judging from the ages of the two, Alistair figured they were a boy and his grandfather. 

There was so little he knew about the elf. There were a few rumors about him at Ostagar, of his temper and, um, certain activities. Rav fought well enough though his inexperience made him hesitate. Given his size, Alistair was surprised by how well the elf used his agility and speed to equal out his opponent’s strength. With things like ogres, that was a much needed skill that Alistair still had to develop. 

The elf was patient and kind when he wanted to be, giving comfort to a child, money to refugees, or helping the sick as he did now. All Morrigan did was scoff and criticize, her snarled lip indication that she thought helping others was a waste. Rav could be a diplomat for the crown the way he handled Morrigan and the Chasind. But then last night… the elf had been brutal. Maybe Alistair was wrong, and maybe Rav wasn’t as kind as he thought. The way he went after those bandits was pretty brutal too, but then, there was the elf now, healing people while Morrigan sat sharpening her claws. 

He shook his head unable to come up with any conclusions. What Alistair knew was that he wasn’t wanted. At all. By anyone. That was clear. The story of his life, he thought. Why should things change now? With that thought, a fresh wave of loss for Duncan welled in his chest, stealing his breath. 

Raviathan glanced up, and their eyes met. The elf didn’t stop speaking to the next woman in line. For the life of him, Alistair couldn’t tell what the elf was thinking. When they had first talked at Ostagar, everything seemed fine, but then it wasn’t, and Maker only knew why. When Raviathan’s attention returned back to her, Alistair felt like he had been dismissed. He just wanted… what? 

Confused by the wounded emotion that surged up, Alistair decided to walk about the town to get his blood moving. 

~o~O~o~

By midmorning Raviathan had seen score upon score of people. More came as word spread, but this was no use. With the horde at their heels, he had to prepare and move on. Miriam had all the elfroot potion he could manage to make in the early dawn, which would have to do for all the souls seeking succor. 

Snatches of conversation from his patients revealed more news that the Grey Wardens were to blame, were traitors to the crown and Ferelden. Some believed the rumors because the Hero of River Dane would never lie or betray the king, but others found the rumors suspect, though their voices stayed low. Most people walked in a daze, forced from home and field, lost and bereft. 

Above all, fears of the darkspawn prevailed. Until Duncan had come to the alienage, Raviathan thought the darkspawn gone, monsters of the past. Like him, all these people were suddenly thrust into ancient history when wars against the darkspawn destroyed nations. Stories of the past or songs of heroic deeds and heroes were fine in the abstract or as lazy fantasies, but this? A true blight with the loss of life and prosperity that entailed? Not surprising, many couldn’t believe the stories from the teyrn or southern villagers regarding the surge of darkspawn. With Miriam’s help, they counseled each and every person who came for help to flee north. 

Those uncertainties of the coming danger were true for Raviathan’s little band as well if not more so. These people just had to escape, not stop the Blight hunting them down like the shadows found in nightmares. 

“Miriam, I have to go. My companions and I also have to prepare and leave.” 

She gave him a hug. “Thank you, lad. You’ve helped so many today.” 

“Make sure you take that syrup I gave you.” He wagged a finger at her. “No giving it away.” 

She scoffed and batted his hand away, but he saw her smile as she turned to help the next patient. 

When Alistair emerged from the more developed part of the village near the Chantry, Raviathan crossed over to meet him. The scowl Alistair had for him wasn’t unexpected. “Alistair, I’m sorry.” 

The scowl turned into confusion. His head tilted to one side, and Raviathan thought of Venger’s questioning expressions, which made him smile. Everything Alistair had said had been true. The templars didn’t recognize the apostate under their noses. Alistair didn’t know about the second apostate in his midst, so Raviathan didn’t know if Alistair would have turned him in for that, but so far the human had been honest. In any case, it wouldn’t do to alienate the person who could still put Morrigan at risk. 

“Last night,” Raviathan elaborated. “I’m sorry I snapped. Tired and… I reacted badly. You didn’t do or say anything wrong, and I shouldn’t have taken my frustrations out on you.” 

If anything, Alistair seemed more confused. “I… well, I guess that’s understandable.” 

Raviathan knew resentment lingered, but this was a start. Maybe if Alistair felt more secure, he would be amenable to going to the Circle on his own. Anything to get the away from the templar.

“Have you been to the inn yet?”

“No.” 

“Best place to get information.” Raviathan started walking, Venger and Alistair in tow. He didn’t miss the little moue Alistair still wore, and if Raviathan was honest, he wouldn’t be forgiving either if a near stranger yelled at him like that. While Raviathan might hide how he felt, he wasn’t going to lie about it either and pretend to make nice when he didn’t feel that way. 

More rumormongers milled outside the rough wood building with the sign “Dane’s Refuge” on the shingle. A young, shabby squire trotted off as they neared. Shems did seem to stare at him so. In that regard, having Alistair around was a relief in case someone started getting ideas about the little elf in a barroom. “Let’s split up to talk to people, but keep an eye out in case there’s trouble.” 

“Trouble? What sort of trouble do you expect in an inn?”

You would never understand, shem. “Elves don’t mingle with humans often. They might want me out, and once out, teach me a lesson.” No need to tell Alistair about the other issues he might have. 

Alistair’s brows lifted in surprised understanding. “Never thought of that. Has that happened to you?” 

“Yes.” Before Alistair could blather about whatever knew trivia that had entered his head, Raviathan entered. 

Noise filled the high ceilinged main room. From the outside, the building did not appear so large, but even with the mass of people filling every table or standing in groups, the building sprawled with no worry for economy. Shems, thought Raviathan. They take up so much room but crowd us into forgotten corners to build our feeble shelters out of sticks. 

A conversation with an older albeit eccentric man who turned out to be a trader proved fruitful, not in information but in trade. Allison had wanted traps, and this man might be the answer. 

A Chantry priestess sitting by the musicians kept catching Raviathan’s eye, her presence as out of place here as a fish in a field. Raviathan wondered if he should talk to her, but the priestesses he had brief conversations with so far cared for little beyond espousing their precious piety. Alistair, in talks with an armored man by the fire, kept shooting the Chantry maiden glances as well. With Alistair’s background, Raviathan hoped he would be willing to chat the woman up to find out why she was here, but the templar didn’t seem to be catching on to Raviathan’s signals. 

Whether the human was too dim or too shy, the priestess fixed the situation when she took an interest in Alistair. She was pretty, red hair cut in a mussed pageboy style. Why she cared about a random fighter of unknown history, Raviathan couldn’t guess, but it freed him up to talk to the barkeep. 

The door burst open nearly breaking the hinges as bulky forms blocked out the light from outside. 

“You said they were here?” The leader of the group called. 

The squire nodded. “Fit the descriptions, they did.” 

“We’re looking for two men,” the leader called to the tavern. 

One of the patrons yelled back, “‘ere now! You’ve been nothing but trouble. Drinking and brawling.” 

“Please leave,” a woman with a worry lined face said, her voice shaking but clear. “We have enough trouble.” 

The leader took no notice. “A man with short blonde hair in grey iron armor, and an elf, dark as a Tevinter.” 

The room cleared as people hugged close to the wall. Raviathan felt a hard shove, which sent him into the exposed clearing, Alistair stumbling forward on the other side. 

“Grey Wardens and traitors to the Crown! Loghain wants your heads!” 

Alistair turned pale, looking to Raviathan. To his own surprise, Raviathan felt rage burn his face. His jaw tightened as he strode forward. “Outside!” 

The leader looked at him, his face a mix of scorn and disbelief. “Outside?” 

“The people in here will be hurt, so outside!” 

A laugh bubbled up from the leader’s throat. “Elf…” 

Raviathan grabbed a chair, swung around for momentum, and let it fly at the soldiers. “Out-fucking-side!” 

The leader had his shield up, the heavy chair bouncing off with a loud crack as a leg broke. Raviathan sprinted the rest of the way, taking his chance to kick the leader’s knee. The crack of joints sounded followed by a cry of pain. A sword swung beside him, Alistair taking the flank before the rest could push their way in. Venger’s jaws clamped around the leader’s sword arm, but the man’s pain already rendered him useless. Hauled forward by Venger, the next soldier came into Raviathan’s view. 

A shield punched out. Its green wyvern took up his field of vision, then slammed into Raviathan. He fell back, dazed, images of the heraldry flashing before his eyes. Raviathan wasn’t sure if he imagined the robes or not, but pale red movement caught his attention. The priestess had nothing but a dagger against armored men, but there she was, fighting. 

Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Raviathan stepped back into the fray. What was the woman doing? A sword swung down in a desperate move to act in the close fighting quarters. It should have sliced through the priestess, but she twisted out of it’s path then grabbed the man’s wrist to yank him off balance. Raviathan took the opening to thrust his sword between the man’s armor. Red flowed out to pool on the floor. A grunt escaped the soldier before he fell to his knees. 

Another sword and shield man appeared. Raviathan spun, jumping high over the shield to thrust down at the soldier’s exposed face. A second of shock registered before Raviathan’s blade met flesh. 

“Stop! Please, stop!” The leader lay sprawled on the floor, his sword forgotten, a mabari on his chest growling into his face. What soldiers remained fell back, fear having replaced the derision in their eyes. 

Raviathan slid his toe under the leader’s sword, flicking it up to catch the hilt. “You are Loghain’s men?” 

“Yes. There’s only us left here. To wait for any Grey Wardens.”

“How did you know what to look for?” Raviathan’s growl matched his mabari. 

“We were told to look for two. If they didn’t show before the horde came, we were to head north. Loghain had drawings made for your warrants.” 

Maker help us. Raviathan pondered that bit of information. Did that mean Loghain watched the rest of the Wardens die on the battlefield and wanted to make sure all were gone? Instead of leaving to chance what he didn’t see, Loghain had made preparations for their death. More than just blame the Grey Wardens, they were now being hunted. The general was thorough to the point of obsessive. Why? What threat were he and Alistair? 

“Let’s get them outside,” he muttered. Alistair had to drag their leader out, the man’s knee too damaged to support his weight. 

What to do now? Raviathan stared at the men before him, defeated and with their fates in his hands, a few bleeding into the mud at their feet. They watched him, becoming more nervous at his indecision. He could see their worried thoughts on their faces. Would they have to fight, most likely to die? Would they be spared? 

Raviathan wondered the same. If he let them go now, what would keep them from recouping and coming back later, maybe with more men to outnumber the last two Wardens? But kill them? Raviathan thought of the bandits from the day before, the only men he had killed after Vaughan’s attack. The highwaymen had deserved pain for the damage they did to desperate people, but were their lives too high a price? Had those bandits killed anyone? 

Could he kill these men?

These soldiers were afraid, wanted to live. Would these men have spared him if the skirmish had gone differently? No. Take their heads, the leader had said. Did that make killing them now right, when they were helpless? Absolutely not. That answer screamed in Raviathan’s head, every instinct balking from the idea. 

“Go get one of the templars,” Raviathan told Alistair. 

The men glanced at each other. One, a man with dark scruff almost covering old scars on his face, spoke. “What do you intend, ser?”

There was that ‘ser’ again. Raviathan didn’t think he would ever get used to hearing it. “Leave your weapons. The templar will escort you to the edge of town.”

“Bandits, ser. We will be defenseless. That is a death sentence you give us.” 

“I could kill you now, if you prefer.” Raviathan raised the corner of an eyebrow. “You are trained men and have only to find a lord or catch up with Loghain to secure your safety. That gives you much better odds than the rest of these refugees. Perhaps this mercy will remind you what they face, that you as stronger men would do well to give them some protection.” 

Raviathan had no illusions that these men would run like cowards to the closest lordling they could find. If they chose not to ambush the two Wardens instead, that is. 

To his surprise, the Chantry maid spoke up. “That is most just.” Her accent marked her as Orlesian, but she spoke the with Fereldan tongue with fluency. Her chin lifted as she addressed the men. “You have an opportunity to repent for attacking Grey Wardens, our only hope during a Blight. You would condemn us all with these actions led by a fool, just as Maferath let his own desires…” 

Maker’s blood. Who was this woman? She started lecturing them as if they were children rather than soldiers who had their blades out for her blood only a moment before. Some stared at her with the blank eyed tolerance of cows in the pasture. A few hung their heads in contrition, an act Raviathan thought was ingrained habit rather than piety. He tried to keep a cynical smile off his face. Proof of their contrition would be in their actions. 

While she lectured, Raviathan saw to the injured. The awkwardness he felt after the fight left as the clinical part of his mind took over. A few swigs from a bottle of elfroot potion, some bandages, and a splint for the leader’s knee had them able to walk without further bleeding out or shock setting in. Maker’s ass, this was a strange world, healing men who had tried to kill him, but he couldn’t see their wounds without acting. 

Alistair returned with a harassed looking templar in tow. After a few words of explanation, the templar followed the men as they trudged towards the north road out of town. 

Raviathan turned to reenter the inn. Likely they would be asked to leave, the people fearful of any trouble, but the risk was minimal considering more information could be gleaned. 

A hand on his elbow stopped him. He turned to see the Chantry maid, her skin still flushed from the fight. 

“Grey Wardens, I’m going with you.” 

Alistair’s astonishment matched his own. “You’re what now?”

She smiled, an oddly peaceful expression given the blood splattered on her robes. “You are the Grey Wardens. I’m going with you.” 

Oh, no. No, that wasn’t happening. First the templar, and then to be saddled with a priestess? What masochistic form of divine justice was going on here? What was the proper address for her, anyway? Sister or Mother? Maker, he knew nothing about them other than to steer clear of those robes. “Look, we appreciate your help…”

“I can fight, as you just saw. And I have other skills. Besides, I am doing the Maker’s work.” 

“I’m sure you feel…”

“No, you don’t understand. The Maker has sent me to you.” 

“More crazy?” Alistair leaned against the inn’s wall. “I thought we had enough of that with Morrigan.” 

Raviathan shot Alistair a glare. Instead of chiding the templar, he turned back to the priestess. “What do you mean the Maker sent you?”

She smiled, a rueful twist to her lips. “I know that must sound crazy, but I had a vision.” 

That got Raviathan’s attention. “A vision?”

“You believe me.” Her face brightened. 

“Perhaps.” At Raviathan’s answer, Alistair gave him a quizzical look. 

“These people are in despair. The darkspawn will come, destroy everything. The Maker doesn’t want that, and so I will help you.” 

The Maker doesn’t want that? They why by the blasted Blight did he send the darkspawn in the first place? Raviathan rubbed his forehead. He didn’t need this. “I’m not saying yes, but we will talk further.” 

Her smile brightened as if she had already gotten her way. “So be it.”

“Really?” Alistair straightened. “We’re taking Princess Stabbity along with us? Do you think that’s wise?”

“My name,” she said, her face as serene and beatific as a saint’s, “is Leliana.”


	39. Crossroads – We're All Murders Here

Fifty three, fifty four, fifty five. Raviathan sighed. Never before had he had so much money, and it was gone just as quickly. Working for Alarith had given him some experience with sums and handling coin, enough so he wasn’t completely off-footed by holding the pouches of silver and few sovereigns. Instead, he hadn’t felt like the coins were his, just holding it for another person. That had made it easy to spend on necessities like tents and food. The unfamiliarity with having money of his own bypassed his natural inclination to hoard for an emergency. 

What they had left wasn’t much, certainly not enough for travel. Raviathan nibbled at his lip as he piled the silver back into the pouch, fingering the last silver with trepidation. What did Wardens do for money, anyway? Duncan, like many humans, seemed to have a limitless supply. 

They had needed the equipment, so the coin had to be spent. Raviathan didn’t begrudge the elves or child he had given money to either. Those people had been in worse shape. Fifty silver to get to Denerim was impossible, but the elven family could probably scrounge jobs along the way by carrying some human’s goods. The child, well, a child needed comfort, and Raviathan couldn’t take the boy with him through the village. Still, what were they to do now? 

Raviathan stared at the coin in his hand as if he could will more into existence. 

“Um.” 

At Alistair’s hesitant look, Raviathan raised a brow in question. 

“I, well, I picked these up at the Chantry.” He passed the papers to Raviathan. “I’m surprised the Chantry is still running the Board, but since they are…” Alistair trailed off with a shrug. The four of them sat around their camp, their seats of stones coated with morning dew. Morrigan leaned back on her arms, face turned to the sky in boredom. Leliana leaned forward with her arms braced on her thighs, eager to be a part of the conversation. The leather armor she had obtained squeaked as she shifted.

“What are they?” Raviathan asked. The Board? 

“You know. The Chantry Board.” 

Raviathan looked at him blankly. 

“The Chantry has a board up that people can post jobs to,” Leliana said. “Either work for the Chantry itself or for people in the town. In some cases the Chantry pays for the work, but they also facilitate notices for anyone in need.” 

The Chantry had notices for jobs? Maker, why hadn’t he known that? Not one of the elves talked about a jobs’ board. Raviathan wondered what kind of work he could have done back in Denerim had he known. Perhaps he could have earned enough to get Nesiara a real gift for their wedding and not that ridiculous, half formed song. 

His chest tightened at the thought of her, a physical pain as if he had a fist clenching his heart. Was she safe? Was she still in Denerim or had she moved on? That necklace he had stolen from the Arl’s estate would have secured her any match she wanted in all of Ferelden, maybe further, beyond the borders where she could be safe from the Blight. Had she gone to her parents instead, to be with her family? She might have, using the money from the necklace to give her family a second chance. 

What he knew was that he missed her, enough that there were times he couldn’t breathe with the weight of want. He wanted to bury his face in the silk of her hair, breathe in her sent and feel her willowy body in his arms. He wanted to forget the world for a few moments while he held her as he used to, her presence enough to shield them from all the pain that existed beyond their embrace. 

“What do you think?” 

Raviathan blinked back to the present at Alistair’s question. He shuffled through the papers. “Well. There are bears that are troubling the outlying farmers.” 

Morrigan snorted at that. 

“More problems with bandits. Maybe that’s the rest of the crew from the entrance.” Those bandits hadn’t been so hard to deal with. Could they take that job on? Raviathan’s gut twisted at the idea of killing more men. The bandits on the highway had been one thing, a moment of passion when they were being attacked. This though, hunting down men was a cold blooded act that screamed murder in his mind. Raviathan nibbled the inside of his lip. What chance did the refugees have when these bands waited in ambush for them? Leaving the highwaymen alone would cause more death, more pain. The whole situation made him sick. “There’s something about a missing woman.” 

“Missing woman?” Leliana asked. 

Raviathan shook his head. “I don’t even know where to start with that. She’s presumed dead according to this. They just want confirmation of her body and maybe something for the family to remember her by.” 

“How do they know she’s dead?” 

Raviathan shrugged. “Doesn’t say much let alone where to find her. The rest though… Leliana, you know this area best. According to the templars, they think the bandits are north of the town. Do you have any idea of where they could be?” 

“I almost never left the Chantry,” she said, a pout pulling at her lips in a rather sweet display. “I could talk to the templars, perhaps. They might know a bit more.” 

The sour expression on Morrigan’s face told them all what she thought of that. “Well, they certainly are good at not protecting the citizenry here, either.” 

Leliana blinked in surprise. “It’s not their job to go after bandits. The arl should have taken care of that.” 

“But he took his militia with him,” Alistair muttered. 

Morrigan let out another derisive snort. “Shocking. When you put your protection in another’s hands, how easily they forget their duty. Instead, this arl jumped like a dog when another lord snapped his fingers, and left all these poor, sad souls to weep and moan their fate.” Leliana leaned back as if to distance herself from Morrigan’s sarcasm. 

Raviathan’s jaw tightened. “Morrigan. That doesn’t help.” 

“Well then, this might.” She stood, brushing off her clothes and picking here and there to rearrange them to her satisfaction. “While you make your way north, I shall turn into a bird and scout. These bandits should be easy to spot from the sky. Does that suit the purpose of this errand well enough?” 

“Yes, and thank you.” 

Her smile held a mix of superiority and contempt though Raviathan didn’t think it was directed at them so much as the mission and people of the town. She strode to the other side of the mound where the rest of the refugees would not see her. Raviathan watched carefully as her form shifted in a swirl of black smoke, her rags shining like ink the instant before taking on the solid contour of feathers. In the space of two heart beats the woman was gone as a raven beat her wings frantically to gain altitude. As she rose, her wings slowed to graceful strokes to take her far above the town. 

Fascinating. Would he be able to do that? The prospect sparked a hundred possibilities in Raviathan’s mind. 

Leliana grasped at Raviathan’s arm, one hand over her open mouth in astonishment as she stared at the retreating bird. 

Aside from the sister, Raviathan was immediately concerned with the way Alistair watched Morrigan’s transformation. What the human’s expression meant, he couldn’t tell, but there was a focus to Alistair’s gaze that made him nervous. While Alistair had kept his word to preserve the apostate’s secret, why did he watch Morrigan like that? Considering how the two verbally sparred, that couldn’t be a good sign. Maybe Alistair wasn’t as assured to silence as Raviathan had thought. 

Raviathan put a hand over Leliana’s, the tilt of his head an inquiry. Alistair had at least made a promise, but what about this sister? As much as Morrigan’s independent perception of herself would decry his help, he had given an oath to protect her. 

Startled, Leliana let go of his arm as if he were a hot pan and backed away. “I’m sorry.” 

A strange reaction. “It’s fine. Are you alright?” 

“I… yes.” 

He kept a level gaze on her, waiting. 

In response, Leliana gave him a nervous smile. “You said she was an apostate. I’ve never seen magic like that.” 

That was another odd statement. Few people in Thedas had seen magic at all since any person found to have mage talent was locked up in one of the Mage Circles each nation maintained. Tevinter was the only exception, the lords having retained their magical authority. Had she lived in Tevinter at some point? Or had she some experience with apostates? 

“We need her, Leliana.” 

“What? Oh,” she said, tearing away her attention from the distant black speck that was Morrigan. “Of course.” She giggled, a reaction that took Raviathan by surprise. “The Wardens have always taken what help they could, and she is no different. A comrade in arms.” Her smile was confident and calm now that she was over her startlement. “Shall we go? Clearly ‘as the crow flies’ has been coined with a reason.” 

The three made their way through town with Venger trotting at Raviathan’s heels. 

“So, you were a lay sister?” Alistair asked. Raviathan listened to the conversation behind him with interest. 

“Indeed.” 

“For how long?”

“I came to the Lothering Chantry two years ago. What about you, Alistair? What were you before you became a Grey Warden?” 

A commotion caught Raviathan’s attention. A tired looking templar listened impatiently to a man in rough spun clothing yelling at a Chasind. What kind of fool would provoke one of the swamp warriors like that? The Chasind remained impassive in the face of the smaller man’s accusations as if the farmer was nothing more than a chattering squirrel. 

An unexpected sensation of pity welled in Raviathan. The swamp warriors didn’t belong here. They were just as foreign in these lands as Raviathan was. The barbarian’s muted green armor and hanging fox tails marked the man as an outsider as much as his tattered hair and facial designs. The Chasind stood out in their odd stillnesses and the way they swayed when they walked as if they were trees flowing with the wind. They didn’t have the mannerisms of normal men who gestured with quick hands or crossed their arms over their chests in discomfort. They didn’t belong here, and Raviathan knew how hard it was going to be for them outside of their forests unused to these rules of behavior and laws. 

For a moment Raviathan wondered about all the people who would be hurt by the Blight. He had never known the Chasind existed before. How many more were like them, the hidden people and tribes that wouldn’t even be counted among the casualties? 

As they left the outskirts of the town, a deep voice rumbled out strange syllables in a language Raviathan had never heard. Granted, he didn’t know much beyond his mother tongue and the Tevinter’s Arcanum, but he did recognize the languages from the different nations, especially after his time at the docks. 

Raviathan stopped, Alistair nearly crashing into him, when he spied the giant in a cage. He had seen one of those people in Denerim! Those two men who had stopped him in the streets with their dog. Intrigued, Raviathan walked over, studying the man’s face. Lavender eyes were all the more striking against bronze skin. The giant’s white hair was carefully plaited in close braids against his scalp. 

Glancing at Leliana, Raviathan asked, “What sort of person is he?” 

“A criminal, from what I understand,” she said, but her voice held no reproach for the caged man. 

“Do I amuse you, elf?” 

Raviathan looked back at the giant. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to speak of you like you couldn’t answer.”

The lavender eyes blazed as if lit by their own fire. The eyes were rimmed in red, probably from exhaustion if he had been caged for a time. His eyes weren’t as large or bright compared to elves, but with his size and odd coloring, he was exotic. 

The giant leaned forward in his cage, his arms resting on the bars. “Manners, or do you mock me?” 

“No mocking. I have seen one of your kind before. He had horns that looked like they had been cut.” 

A scowl deepened the lines in the giant’s face. “Do not call one of those beasts kin of mine.” 

Raviathan’s brows raised at the giant’s anger. Had the cage not separated them, he would be backing away. “What are you then?” 

“Qunari,” Leliana said when the giant remained silently staring. “He murdered a whole family, including the children.” 

Murdered children? Disgusted, Raviathan left. 

“So he’s left there?” asked Alistair. 

“It was the Mother’s decision. I can’t help but think it is a cruel fate. To die slowly of starvation or be left to the darkspawn. Nobody deserves that. At least make it a clean death.” 

Raviathan shot her a dark look over his shoulder. “Is he guilty?” 

“That’s the strange part. He said yes, but he didn’t fight when the templars came for him. He was sitting there, waiting for them. He never once resisted.” 

“He murdered children,” Raviathan said. “Let him be ripped apart.” Strip by meaty strip.

He didn’t miss Leliana’s startled glance to Alistair who shrugged in response. Was that worry in her eyes? Why? He was still so bad at reading human expressions. 

On to work.

~o~O~o~

Another arrow sng through the air. Raviathan nocked an arrow as Leliana let her third fly. Panic made his hands tremble. The nock stubbornly refused to line up with his bow string. Maker help them! 

The bear roared as he stood up on his hind legs. The thing was huge! They were going to be killed right here. The bear lunged forward, the muscles and thick layers of fat bouncing as the animal charged forward. 

“Can’t you cast a spell yet?” Alistair yelled at Morrigan. He gripped his sword and shield tighter to his chest, his own panic stretching his face into a grimace. 

“I told you before! It is out of range.” Morrigan’s face showed pale in the forest shadows, the whites around her yellow irises visible. 

Venger gave three harsh barks that bounced off the hills. He danced back and forth unsure of what to do. 

Raviathan’s arrow hit the bear’s chest, a solid shot that did nothing. The arrows they kept lining up has all the effect of pebbles thrown at a fortress wall. Leliana’s shot stuck out of the bear’s shoulder, the shaft quivering as the bear continued his charge. The yellow teeth gleamed against dark brown fur. They were going to be ripped apart.

“Maker,” Alistair breathed in a low prayer. He charged out, holding his sword too tight to be effective. 

No! Though their arrows had little effect, they couldn’t shoot at all now for fear of hitting the templar. The bear twisted his head to follow the templar. The fool doesn’t have a chance, Raviathan thought. Why? 

Before reaching the bear, Alistair backpedaled to the right, the bear following him. The great thing reared, the wicked claws catching the afternoon light and reflecting red. The bear struck out, his massive claw brushing aside Alistair’s raised sword with ease. Alistair stumbled with the force, caught his footing and kept moving around. 

Both archers renewed their efforts now that the bear was a clear target. Arrows landed but only elicited a grunt. The bear bellowed rage. 

“Morrigan! Get in range if you have to!” Maker’s ass, they were going to watch Alistair get mauled in front of them. The bear made another swipe. Alistair dodged, a backwards leap to the ground. The bear clawed at empty air, a hair’s breadth away from Alistair’s breastplate. He’s going to die. The bear lunged forward. Alistair rolled to the side then scrambled to his feet. He faced the bear, his arms out wide and legs splayed as he tried to get his balance back. 

He was going to be lucky only so many times. 

Morrigan’s lips trembled. Her eyes darted at all of them, quick fearful movements. After two hesitant steps, she ran forward. At the halfway point, she threw her arms wide, the cold swirls visible around her staff before exploding out. 

A second later, ice sheathed the bear. 

The bear whipped around, eyes fixed on the mage. Horror speared throw Raviathan. The spell hadn’t worked. Instead, the bear fur had turned in an armor of ice. Morrigan let out a cry as the bear started for her. Maker, no! Raviathan didn’t have any thought for what he was doing. He was beside Morrigan, pushing her back, his own fear clawing at his throat. He waved his bow stave at the bear to distract it. The thing was over him, a lumbering mass of muscle. Claws as long as his fingers beckoned his death. 

Raviathan dove to the side, his bow forgotten as he scrambled in a mad dash out of the bear’s range. For a frozen second, the bear stood high above him, his mouth open to let out a roar that reverberated through Raviathan’s bones. In the blast of that sound, Raviathan didn’t feel his body anymore. Thought left his mind. He was only fear and the vibration of that animal’s thunder. 

A flash of silver at the bear’s side. Alistair’s sword bounced off the ice coating the bear’s fur. An arrow ricocheted as harmless as a tossed twig. The bear had been bad enough before. Now it had a full armor to protect it. 

The bear’s eyes, mad with rage, focused on Raviathan. The great maw opened to take him. 

A flash of brown raced across his vision. 

Venger’s jaws clamped around the bear’s maw, twisting it with the full weight of the dog’s airborne body. Red coated Venger’s mouth, dripped from the bear’s face, as the thing swung to meet his new opponent. Venger bounced back and forth, feigned charges, his sharp barks never ceasing. Fearless. 

Raviathan jumped to his feet, unsure of what to do but adrenaline burning his nerves to do something. “Morrigan! Again!” 

His sword out, Raviathan charged, pushed with all his weight to bury the metal inside the hot flesh encased in ice. The sword sunk in a few inches before bending, useless. The bear turned with an impossible speed for his size, and Raviathan flew fifteen paces to land in a skid on his back. As shoulders and spine bounced against gnarled roots, Raviathan bit back a curse. His torso throbbed from the battering. Maker! What power the animal had! His sword stuck out of the bear’s side, blood dripping like rain down the blade before the twisted metal fell to the ground.

Bright pain flared as Raviathan got to his feet, ribs and tissues bruised, but he could ignore it in the adrenaline of battle. The pain’s beat faded slowly as his healing magic flowed into crushed tissues. All he had left were daggers. What could he do now? 

Venger leapt at the bear, his growls and barks making the great creature back up. The dog’s ugly snarls gave Raviathan chills. 

The ice melted in a slow wash. This time a brown mist settled around the bear. The animal gave a low moan as it staggered back, seeming to grow smaller with the weight of the spell. Alistair pierced the beast’s side with his sword, but it was Venger that kept the animal in check. 

A full bodied thrust from the templar sent the sword deep into the bear’s neck. More blood flowed as the animal backed up. Wet death sounds made Raviathan shiver in sympathy pain as the bear finally fell. 

Knees weak, Raviathan sat, feeling as if all the bones of his body had disappeared. Venger trotted up to him, his doggy grin turning into a concerned whine. Raviathan’s outstretched arm was the only invitation the dog needed to cuddle in close. Raviathan whispered into the dog’s neck, “That was really good, Venger. Thank you.” 

For that moment, he needed Venger’s solid body to cling to. Short fur and solid muscles that radiated heat made Raviathan feel real again. “Good dog.” 

He let out a shaking breath. “Good dog.”

Shouting dragged Raviathan’s attention back to the rest. Maker love a duck. Alistair and Morrigan at it again. 

“You made the thing impenetrable!” 

“I’ve never bespelled a creature with such mass! If you hadn’t run out like a fool, I could have calculated better.”

Leliana glanced between the two, worry marking the lines that would be permanent in the decades to come. With an effort to calm his shaking limbs, Raviathan stood. “Stop!” 

He hadn’t meant for his voice to carry as it did. He could hear it echo off the near hills. As his heartbeat slowed to normal, Raviathan felt a bone deep exhaustion descend. Adrenaline. His medical training ticked off the signs in dispassionate detail as his magic worked to subtly shift his body’s chemistry. How could the two fight like that after the battle they just had? 

Shems. 

“The fight’s over. Let’s figure out what to do.” Raviathan fetched his sword, stepping on the blade in an attempt to bend it back into a somewhat straight shape. Blasted, cheap thing. While the grey iron served him well enough against the darkspawn thus far, the blade’s limits were near.

Alistair flopped on his back with a groan, his arms spread wide. Raviathan kept the smile from his face as he watched the templar succumb to exhaustion. Morrigan crouched on her haunches. Fingers combed into her hair, she seemed just as fatigued now that they could relax. 

“The Chantry will want proof,” Leliana said. “We could take a paw.” 

“What about meat,” Alistair asked. “We could at least eat for the night.” 

“You would eat a whole bear, Alistair?” Leliana sounded amused.

To be honest, Raviathan found the idea of a bear steak rather appealing. Was the starvation from their journey in the Wilds catching up to him? Protein had been scarce lately. “Bear meat has a lot of fat. That’s not going to be so useful for us on the road, but I’m sure we could get decent coin from a butcher who can sell it off.” 

“Bear fat?” Alistair’s forehead scrunched as he looked up at Raviathan.

Raviathan held back a sneer. “You’ve never worked in a kitchen. Or had to oil cloaks for the winter.” Or a host of other basic necessities, like light lamps, make soap, create salves for the injured, or anything else useful, you mage hunter. All you needed to learn in life is how to imprison children or kill people like me.

“Considering how in need the villagers are, they’ll want this for the journey north, especially considering it’s winter,” Raviathan said. “Meat, fur, bones for tools. That can bring us extra coin, help them in the process, and perhaps earn us a bit of good will.” 

“Sooo, how are we to get that thing back?” Alistair asked. “Not to state the obvious, but it’s not going to carry itself.” 

“Morrigan? Do you know how to make a stretcher? We could drag it.” 

“T’would be a great deal of work, but if you are set on this course, it is possible.” 

“Let’s get to work.” 

~o~O~o~

Night had fallen by the time an elf, two humans, and a dog dragged the three bear carcasses to the outskirts of the village. While they pulled, a slender woman kept the splints balanced during the long journey. 

Exhausted, Leliana left her burden to fetch the butcher, a man most likely to be drinking at the inn. Venger huffed and panted, his thick muscles quivering with strain from doing the main of the work.

By the time the group reached the village, two oxen had been brought to take the kills. Leliana and the butcher started negotiating as his children hitched the makeshift stretchers to the oxen. Raviathan saw to Venger, making sure the ropes had not cut into the dog’s skin through the padding, while Alistair stretched his fatigued arms and back. 

After negotiating a shocking sum, Leliana said, “From that, take ten sovereigns off if you promise to keep your prices reasonable for those in need.” 

“Aye, I can do that, miss. And I’ll send word to the Chantry for your payment in the morning.” 

Raviathan boggled at the money. It would take near a year for a dock worker to make that sum. He ignored the butcher’s children who cast glances at him, their voices low but carrying to his ears easily. Theirs was the same look he got everywhere, a mixture of coveting, distrust, and contempt, the kind of gaze usually reserved for exotic prostitutes. While they now whispered about the way his eyes glowed in the last light of dusk, the two boys would just as likely try to beat him if they caught Raviathan out alone. Beat him for no other reason than that he was an elf. 

The alien cruelty of that brought to mind the bandit gangs they had hunted. As a bird, Morrigan had discovered their encampments easily along with the best advantage for an ambush. Between Raviathan and Leliana’s arrows, and Venger’s stealthy muscle, the bands were killed with minimal fuss. 

Leliana and Morrigan were pleased by the outcome. Considering they had been outnumbered—a witch, two archers, and a dog—they proved formidable stealth skirmishers after taking out groups twice their size with only a few scratches on Venger’s sleek coat.

Despite their success, Raviathan’s mind kept repeating the seconds when the arc of blood spurted from one man’s neck. The spring of an arrow, and the man Raviathan shot froze, his life’s blood pouring out in a pulsing stream. Frost dimmed all the color from the world, making the still dawn pristine when they infiltrated the bandit’s camp. That man’s blood steamed in the frosty morning air. Bright red blossoming in winter’s frozen garden. 

He had never killed a person in cold blood before. He had killed to save his wife and family. He had killed soulless monsters or in rage. Never like this. Never hunted thinking men and women.

This would be their last night in the village. Raviathan left his band of companions to find his way back to the farmer girl. Venger trotted after him, but the others didn’t notice his departure. 

Raviathan felt sick. The stone in his stomach started turning over as his mood blackened. Not one of his companions had been bothered by the killing. He expected as much from that templar. They were killers after all. Morrigan, too. She didn’t care a wit for a life beyond her own. Should he be surprised by Leliana? Raviathan didn’t remember much of the Chant, but he thought there was something about ‘one life’ that meant killing others was wrong in the Maker’s eyes. That couldn’t be right though. The templars worked for the Chantry and they killed any mage outside those tower prisons. And didn’t the Chantry order wars? He didn’t remember what his father had said about that, either.

What was he becoming? Is this what Duncan would have wanted for them, the last Wardens? Turned to base killers? Is this what Grey Wardens did? Murder people because they needed coin? 

Was life no longer held sacred because one authority sanctioned the spilling of blood? 

As much as Raviathan held tight the memories of his mother, he knew she would have had no difficulty doing what he had done the last few days. The need for coin wouldn’t even be a priority. She would have hunted those men because it would help others. The quieter part deep inside him knew the truth—she would have found the job more of an adventure than chore. 

That small but powerful part of him that would allow no illusions kept ticking at his mind like water leaking through a roof, one incessant drop at a time. She would not feel remorse in their deaths or her part in them. 

Solyn would have shrugged her shoulders, showing neither pleasure or pity. His father would not judge him for killing bandits, but if Cyrion had to do the task himself? He would feel regret that killing had to be done, but his father wouldn’t have been bothered beyond that. 

All his years, Raviathan worked to save lives. What he did now was an anathema to the principles he held at his core. Always, he lived in superiority to templars. Templars thought they meted out the Maker’s justice, but before Raviathan could always take pride in the distinction that he saved lives while templars served to take them. What now? Was killing those men justified because of coin? Certainly not. Because their deaths meant safety for the refugees heading north? That’s exactly the same justification the templars used to kill his kind, the safety of others should a mage become an abomination. 

Disgusted, Raviathan let himself into Allison’s cottage. She cast a nervous smile at him, still shy though she knew him well enough by now, then continued cooking the stew. Raviathan sat at the table, silent, watching her move. 

Though sweet and simple, Allison had a hidden passion to her. That passion remained buried deep inside, unknown to even her. Raviathan took in the sway of her dress as she moved, the curve of hips, the fuller figure of a human woman, the dark birthmark on her neck that she covered with her hair. 

She had no confidence in herself, not yet. If the time ever came when she could be honest with her real desires, she would want her man to be forceful. That would make her blood flow hot. What she wanted in those hidden parts of her psyche was a man who would come home, push her against the wall, lift her dress and nearly tear her small clothes off to get at her. She wanted to be entered forcefully. Pounded into. 

Women often had fantasies that they didn’t want in their real life. Some thought of strangers overpowering them, holding them down to fuck them. Those fantasies took away responsibility so that they could enjoy their pleasure without losing their virtue, but those secret desires horrified them in real life. 

For Allison, she wanted to know she could be so desirable that the man she gave her heart to wouldn’t be able to stop from needing her. To be wanted in return held a primal power for anyone, but that need grew stronger in her. Though Raviathan was not privy to her history, from what he gleaned, she felt like an outcast in her own family. Her purpose had been to work in the field, keep the house neat, care for her parents when they aged, but not because she as a child had been wanted. Sadly, for the rest of her life she would seek to feel cherished as she had not been by the people who should have loved her most. 

Raviathan wondered if it was his connection to the Fade that gave glimpses into people’s hearts. He never dared discuss the issue with Solyn, not when everyone in the alienage had tried desperately to ignore his behavior. 

Did people with strong intuition carry a deeper connection to the Fade than others? Maybe not enough to cast spells, but enough to understand the suffused emotions others let bleed into the Fade? Mystics called that an aura, the presence of each person’s emotional life that hovered around them in the Fade. 

For whatever reason, he often felt flashes of intuition, sometimes fragments of images, sometimes instincts below the level of words, of what people held close to their hearts. Not always, but often enough to be a barely tolerated pariah in the alienage. 

If only his own desires could be held in check. The guilt that left its dirty residue coating his insides always turned the few moments of pleasure into an ugly mass inside him that he could never be rid of. 

That shame had been exorcised for a few short but glorious months. During that time, Nesiara had been blooming in her own right. A sad smile touched Raviathan’s lips as he thought about her. From their first night and on, she had grown to enjoy her own sexuality. He loved her passion, seeing her awareness and the confidence it brought grow. Pale hair shining in pale moonlight. Maker, she was glorious. 

If only. 

Raviathan blinked back to the present. “I’m sorry. Mind wandering.”

“I, um, I finished setting up the traps today. Thank you for getting them.” 

“It was no problem.” 

No going back. 

Never again, but in his memories. 

His eyes slid back to Allison, and his heart sank. Nothing wrong with her, not really. Nothing was her fault. He knew that. Maker, he knew that! Still, he couldn’t help the aching feeling that kept resurging every time he looked at her. Nothing could replace his Ness. Cheap trinkets with globbed on paint instead of the jewels that showered rainbows in his eyes. Nothing could sparkle like her.

Gone. 

Raviathan picked dried blood out of a nail then stared at his hands. Everything was broken. His wife, gone. The Wardens and all that promised, gone. Stuck with this mess, and everything falling apart. 

“Allison.” His voice was quiet, almost cracking as he tried to hold his emotions back. “If the darkspawn come, don’t rely on the traps. Just run.”

She turned back to him. “W-what’s wrong. The traps… don’t they work?”

Innocent questions from an innocent girl. “I’ve seen the horde. Run.”


	40. Crossroads – Blocked Paths

Coin collected at the Chantry, the party stood together to plan their next course of action. Chanter Devrons continued to intone passage after passage of holy script, his even voice blending into the background. 

“Any last business to finish up before we leave?”

At Raviathan’s question, Alistair fidgeted. Mustering enough patience not to snap, Raviathan raised a brow in question at Alistair. His look must have given some of his thoughts away, judging by Alistair’s sullen scowl. Resentful, Alistair didn’t meet his eyes when he muttered, “The people here. We can’t do anything more for them?”

“Like what?” Raviathan’s voice sounded too sharp to his own ears, but he wasn’t going to take anything back. 

“Alistair,” Leliana said in a much more reasonable tone, “there isn’t much that we can do. We must trust to the templars and Chantry to organize. It is a Blight we face.” 

Alistair’s shoulders slumped. “I know. But all these people.” 

Damn him, Raviathan thought. Heat flushed his face. He felt small again, to incompetent to be a Grey Warden, and shamed yet again. Days ago he had considered burning the town to force the most stubborn farmers who would refuse leaving their holdings, but that course of action kept hitting a wall in his mind, as impossible as facing an archdemon. Would he ever have the will necessary to be a Grey Warden?

Duncan, where are you? This is when we need you most. 

“I understand your feelings, Alistair.” Leliana remained cool yet intractable. “Truly, but there are only the four of us. We can not stop to save every village, or we would be useless in our task. Our goal must be to fight the Blight, and leave to others the tasks of relocating these and the many other villagers that will be affected by the horde.” 

“I…” Alistair sighed. “I suppose you’re right. It just feels wrong.”

Eyes tightened in suspicion, Raviathan watched as the templar’s troubled gaze travelled over the camps of despairing refugees. Why such concern for these people from the mage killer? Or did his sympathies extend only to those shems not blessed with magic? 

Just what would Alistair do if he knew I’m an apostate? If his treatment of Morrigan was any indication, open hostility was assured. At worst? Considering the danger they so often faced, Morrigan could still have an ‘accident’ in any number of ways, reason alone to keep a close eye on the templar. 

Leliana shifted as she took Raviathan’s measure, which brought his attention back to the rest of the group. “Not to disparage our efforts, but I believe we should attempt to gather more people to help with this task.” 

Why was she being so careful with her wording? “Certainly.”

Hesitating, she continued, “Perhaps more muscle?” What was wrong with her? The she hurried, “Not that you aren’t a good leader. Just that in close combat a more… classically trained warrior could be an effective comrade to have?” She trailed off. 

“I’m not offended.” He almost smiled at her worry. Raviathan knew he was no master of the battlefield. A finesse fighter at best, his skills remained underdeveloped and rusty from lack of practice over the last years. Leliana held the same skills, using agility over muscle, but her focus on archery made close combat undesirable. 

“So, add some muscle. Who do you suppose we recruit?” If she wanted templars along, she and Alistair were definitely going to the Mage’s Circle by themselves. Raviathan almost hoped she suggested that so Alistair the Needy could have his escort to the Circle while the apostates made a discreet exit to the east and away from the mindless chanting of the believers.

More warriors to help their cause appealed to him though. Raviathan thought about the Chasind. The lanky men were seasoned warriors, well muscled, and wandering without a home. More than that, they respected elves. Could it be possible that the Chasind had ties with the elves living in the Brecillian Forest? What a help that would be. 

Maybe they could find that man who lost his wife to the darkspawn. True, he seemed unhinged, but grief did that to a person. Considering what he lost because of the darkspawn, perhaps he would welcome a chance for revenge. Raviathan scratched Venger’s head as he thought. 

“There is that qunari outside of town,” Alistair said. “Maybe he’d be willing to come along.” 

“You’ve got to be joking.” Raviathan glared at Alistair. 

The templar backed up, his hands up in surrender. “Just saying.” 

“That is not a bad idea,” Leliana said. 

“He murdered children!” This was not going in the direction he expected.

“He did,” she agreed. “But since his capture, his actions have not been those of an enraged murderer.” 

Were all humans psychotic? Did they hold nothing sacred besides their fire sacrifices and mage hating? Swear to the Maker, if he ever started to understand humans, then the time had come to let the darkspawn win. “Let me see if I understand. There is a giant who comes from a race of renowned warriors and is stronger than all of us put together, so if he ever decides to kill us, he will be able to do so with a minimum of effort. This man has confessed to murder, including the murder of children who could not possibly defend themselves, and you want to bring him along because he’s no longer acting like an insane abomination?” 

“Yes.” 

Raviathan blinked at Leliana’s response. Humans really were crazy. How did they survive with no sense of the danger they could get themselves into? Maker’s ass, very existence of the Black City testified to human’s flagrant disregard for their own lives let alone the lives of others.

Leliana’s jaw raised in a stubborn jut. “He shows remorse for his actions.” At Raviathan’s continued glare, she spoke in a softer voice. “What murderer do you know who submits himself to a long, torturous death without resistance or complaint? Those bandits fought to the end to evade paying for the crimes they committed. This qunari, whatever he’s done, is seeking penance because he feels a guilt so deep he willingly starves and waits for darkspawn. What a waste of a life when he could do something better for this world.” 

“And you’re okay with this?” Raviathan turned to Alistair. Blasted mage hunter would sympathize with a child killer. 

“Well. I… not entirely? I’m not okay that he killed a family, but what Leliana says makes sense. I’ll go along with whatever you say.” 

Just like the idiot to not have a backbone. “Morrigan?”

“Freeing a murderer in the hopes he will not murder you in return? Seems foolish in the extreme. The tale of the scorpion and frog comes to mind.” 

“Agreed.”

“Will you at least talk to him,” Leliana asked.

Raviathan rubbed his forehead. Maker, we don’t have time for this. “I think the Chasind would make better company. They’re also seasoned warriors and have cause to fight the darkspawn.” 

Leliana and Alistair both appeared to consider his proposal, which mollified Raviathan. However, Morrigan’s uncomfortable shift caught his attention. “That… might not be possible. Not with me around.” 

Raviathan’s brows knit. 

At his gaze, Morrigan fidgeted, her fingers linking and twisting in their own dance. “Stories of the Witch of the Wilds travel far among the savages. And… their fears are not without substance.” 

“Isn’t that a surprise,” Alistair muttered. 

Morrigan sneered at him. “My mother’s reputation. Not mine.” 

“Well then. Chasind savages who have a reputation for cannibalism,” Alistair said in an oddly cheery voice, “or Morrigan. Can I vote now?” 

“On second thought,” Morrigan said, giving her best contemptuous glare at Alistair, “a child murder sounds delightful. With your wit, I expect he’ll go after you first.” 

“Stop.” Raviathan wondered how human mothers put up with their children. Drown them all at birth and have done with it. “Leliana, he’s caged for murder. Granted, the templars are busy with the refugees, but they’ll probably notice if we take a murder with us.” 

“Let me speak to the Revered Mother.” 

Maker, why? “You have twenty minutes. Then we’re on our way.” 

She beamed at him. At least this way Leliana’s hopes weren’t his to dash. What was the chance that the Reverend Mother would allow the release of a murderer? Back in Denerim, elves hung from the the gallows for crimes like theft. 

Eighteen minutes later, Raviathan’s jaw tightened when Leliana trotted up to their waiting band at the outskirts of the village, a smile threatening to split her face. 

“Did you steal the key?”

“Of course not!” 

“The Reverend Mother just gave it to you. She’s allowing the release of a strange foreigner who admits to murdering a whole family. Just like that.” 

“Not just like that.” Leliana lifted her chin. “She trusts me.” 

Raviathan held his hand out for the key, eyes closed briefly as he gathered his composure. Elves hang for theft, but this qunari can go free for murder. There was no justice with humans. “I’ll talk to him. I promise nothing.” 

She frowned but stayed silent. 

The qunari stood as implacable as the day before, lavender eyes glaring at the fields and windmill beyond the village proper. 

“Why did you let yourself be captured?” Raviathan asked. 

The qunari made no move. Just when Raviathan decided to leave the giant to his fate, the qunari spoke. “I murdered the family, as you have no doubt been told.” 

“Why not flee? Why not fight for your freedom?” 

“I do not deserve freedom.” 

Well, that was something. “This is your atonement?”

“I do not know that word.” 

“This is your way paying for what you did?”

“Yes.”

Ignoring Leliana’s agitation, Raviathan nibbled his lip as he thought. The qunari gained nothing from lying. Would he turn on them if freed concerned Raviathan more. “Have you killed like that before?”

Again, the qunari appeared like he would not answer. Raviathan would have taken him for a statue except for the twitch of jaw muscles, so he waited. Finally, the qunari’s stare landed on him. “I have killed many. But they were not innocents. Never before have I lost myself.” 

Maker’s ass. Though she held still, Raviathan could feel Leliana’s excitement as if she was ready to bounce like Venger when given a treat. “Your death accomplishes nothing and does not bring back the people you killed. If you wish to atone, I have a proposition for you.” 

“A proposition?”

“We fight the darkspawn. You know of them?”

“Fight the darkspawn?” The giant’s gaze focused, an intensity that made Raviathan feel like a bug pinned to a board. He struggled not to squirm. “You are,” the giant searched for the words, “Grey Wardens?”

“Yes. Alistair and I,” Raviathan said, his hand sweeping to indicate his comrade. 

The giant frowned, angry or disappointed, Raviathan couldn’t say. “We have heard of you, in the North. I expected more.” 

“Not one for self preservation, are you.” 

Now Raviathan had no problem returning the qunari’s glare. 

The qunari emitted a low sound caught between a growl and thoughtful murmur. “The Mother will not let me go.” 

Raviathan held up the key. “Already arranged. Can I trust your word?”

“Yes.” Anger flashed in the qunari, a man whose honor war rarely questioned, Raviathan realized. Sighing, the giant lowered his head. “Free me, and I pledge myself to your service, to fight the darkspawn, as long as you see fit or until the Blight is finished.” 

“Are you sure about this?” Morrigan asked. 

Raviathan studied the prisoner for a long moment. A murderer. A child killer. And a choice. Do I now side with those who wantonly end life, innocent life? Does my goal justify another betrayal to the family who now mourns their lost kin? Justice, or the Blight? 

The answer compelled him as much as the poisoned blood in his body.

Grey Wardens do what them must, and that included taking aid from any source that would help stop a Blight. The templar and apostate at his side stood as testament that personal feelings had no place in this decision. 

Remember that, Rav. Duncan would take anyone who had the mettle to fight the darkspawn. Bitter choices but necessary—do what you must. Be the Grey Warden Duncan wanted.

“Accepted.” 

Rusty hinges shrieked as the cage door opened. “Your name?”

“Sten.” 

Raviathan turned to Leliana. “We need to outfit him. Armor will be next to impossible, but a sword and something basic to start.” 

“While the Mother agreed to grant his freedom, she cautioned that we should not stay as we may incur the ire of the townspeople. They are agitated and may seek him as a target to vent their fear.” 

“Hmm.” As an elf, he understood that fear and the need for caution all too well. He turned to the qunari. “What kind of weapon are you best with?”

“I fight with sword without shield.” 

Handing Leliana a few coins, Raviathan said, “See if you can get one of the two-handeds back from the blacksmith. I doubt we can get an additional tent, but maybe a bedroll and waterskin? We’ll wait just past the windmill, out of sight.” 

Nodding, Leliana left at a jog. 

Without a word, Raviathan handed Sten his waterskin and a wrapped cake Venger had filched that morning. “How long have you been in that cage?”

“Twenty days.” Sten took a careful bite of the cake but did not drink. 

A chill of realization struck Raviathan as he watched the giant. Whoever this man was, he had been starved in the weeks of his capture, understood how to treat starvation, and had the formidable will to keep himself from gorging. 

“Have you decided then?” 

“What?” Raviathan pulled himself away from his thoughts to consider Alistair’s question. “Oh. Yes.” Composing himself, Raviathan prepared for the templar’s inevitable protests. “I know you want to go to Arl Eamon, but the treaties should be our first goal.” 

Alistair’s face fell. 

“Look at what happened with the bann here. Loghain is actively seeking us out, and we don’t know the full reach of his influence. Loghain may have pressured Eamon or lied to him, which is quite possible considering the rumors he’s been spreading here. Until we are assured Eamon will support us, we can’t risk being caught and handed over. Better to get the treaties done.” 

“But the Arl would never…”

Venger’s low growl unnerved Raviathan. Seconds later, Alistair’s naked blade appeared next to him. Sten dropped the few items he had, moving into a defensive stand next to Alistair. Morrigan stayed behind the three fighters in the protection they provided. What in the Maker’s name? Turning, Raviathan saw the crowd of farmers carrying pitchforks, shovels, and one beefy man with a pickax. 

“What’s going on?” Raviathan yelled at the crowd. 

Hands clenched the tools tighter as the crowd of humans glanced at each other. A gaunt man in rags took a few hesitant steps forward. “You’re the Grey Wardens. We heard that.” 

A few of the men behind him nodded. 

“What Loghain told you were lies.” 

“Look,” the leader continued, his voice breaking from fear, “I don’t care what Loghain says about you. There’s a price on your heads. That’s all we want.” 

Raviathan tried to think through the situation. If only his heart would stop racing like a scared rabbit. All his life, shems were to be feared—violent, stronger, and with the law on their side—and here he was, living the nightmare every elf who had who ventured out of the alienage. The retribution of shems. Being a Grey Warden should have changed all that! 

The men were talking, Raviathan reminded himself. His band was outnumbered four to one, but they had training on their side. These men knew the reputation of the Grey. Desperation drove them to act, but fear kept them at bay.

“You know we’re Grey Wardens.” Raviathan tried to push as much authority as he could into his voice. Fear overrode his hesitation. “You know what that means. You don’t have a chance against us. People, there is a Blight. That Blight will swallow everything: this land, your family, everything.” 

A few listened. Their faces grew white as he talked. Maker, was he actually facing down a mob? 

A man from the back yelled, “The Blight will kill us all. This is our only way out! Attack!” 

No, no no! Raviathan struggled to get his bent blade out in time to meet his attackers. No, not this. Though he feared the mob with the instinctual terror that all alienage elves shared, he couldn’t stop from seeing their fear. Some were old men, faces worn to leather from long hours in the sun. Others sported the wiry strength of farmers who had families to protect. Even sisters or wives stood in the mob. 

How can everything go so wrong? This day Raviathan knew he would create widows and orphans. His sword, bent and unwieldy, nocked aside the first shovel aimed at his face. His dagger whipped forward into an unarmored belly. Life’s blood poured out. Their children would die—from starvation, from darkspawn—more death at Raviathan’s feet. 

The man’s eyes widened in pain and the knowledge they both shared. He would die leaving behind all he loved and cared for without his protection. 

More came. Two replaced their injured companion. A pitchfork thrust towards Raviathan’s stomach. His dagger caught it between the prongs though a long scrape bloodied his arm. He lifted the pitchfork up, his sword swinging out in a blur to eviscerate the old farmer. 

Another shovel. This time he could only duck as the flat metal swung over his head. Lunging from a crouch, Raviathan had his blades in the farmer’s unprotected side. Red soaked the tattered clothing, the woman’s lined face turning livid in her agony. These people knew nothing of fighting. They were little better than children swinging sticks. 

“Stop this!” Raviathan’s screams felt like they came from another voice far away. Tears weren’t far off. It didn’t matter that he acted in self defense. He knew better than they did. This was slaughter. His foot connected with a woman’s unarmored belly. She doubled over, her skull an open target. One blow to kill her. 

Part of his mind cursed the shems for forcing him into this position. Another part mourned their needless deaths. Yet through it all, the inescapable fact remained: he was a disgrace, to the Grey Wardens, to himself. 

Not like this. Not some bloody killer. 

Rage filled him as tears burned his eyes. Blood poured from an old man, the bones of his face standing hard against starvation tightened skin. Wasn’t supposed to be like this. The Wardens had been his shield as much as his mission. He could stand proud as an elf among their number, maybe even as a mage in time. That faint promise lost in one day, one betrayal, and here he was, fighting the shems who had always dogged his steps and made him fear since his earliest memories. 

An arrow turned Raviathan’s next attacker away, long enough for him to sink his sword into the farmer’s side. No armor to protect vulnerable flesh. 

Raviathan heaved in breath as he stared at the circle of bodies. Blood blackened earth steamed in the chill morning. 

Leliana trotted up with her bow at the ready. “What happened here?”

“Attacked us,” said Alistair. “There’s a price on our heads.” 

The only other injury belonged to Sten. He bandaged up the shallow cut on his forearm without emotion or show of pain. His blood covered fists moved in efficient jerks. Raviathan couldn’t bring himself to see to the giant’s wound. Not now. Not with these deaths hanging over him.

Shocked, Leliana stared at the bodies. “A price? Surely the templars and priestesses did not condone this.” 

“Didn’t stop Loghain, did they?” Raviathan’s voice sounded strange to his own ears, raw and dark. 

Leliana watched him cautiously. “Should we tell the templars?” 

“What for?” The rage inside Raviathan kept cracking like glass shards in a fire. “For them to take us in as murderers?” He gestured at Sten. “Not going to look so innocent with him in our company.” 

Pink touched Leliana’s cheeks. “Well. We should burn the bodies. At least.” 

Raviathan kicked at the twitching arm of a dead woman. He felt ugly inside. “Leave them.” 

Both Alistair and Leliana jerked in alarm. “The bodies,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.” 

A sneer twisted Raviathan’s lips. “Let the templars and priestesses take care of them.” 

When Leliana opened her mouth to argue, Raviathan snapped, his voice echoing, “Let the fucking pigs rot! They aren’t our problem!” 

Even Morrigan stilled at his voice, her yellow eyes wide in shock. Out of control. Raviathan strode to the highway entrance at the far side of the field without a backwards glance. They could follow or not. He took deep breaths as his feet sped him along. Can’t be out of control. The demons. 

_The demons will ride you._

His aunt’s voice the night they learned of his magic. 

_They will ride your body and nothing you do can stop them._

No, auntie. No, I won’t let them. 

_If you can’t control this, we will all die!_

The muscles in Raviathan’s jaw twitched with tension as he wrestled with his emotions. Can’t. Can’t ever lose control. Not like that. Demons and templars always lurking in the shadows waiting for him to slip. Never safe. Not in his home, not in his mind. Templar’s stealing the children from the alienage, killing his kin. Demons waiting to tempt him. 

Control. Stay in control, never slip, or the demons would hunt him down in his weakness. The voices of demons had never haunted him as long as he stayed in control. Control or become a monster.

Heaving in a shuddering breath, Raviathan tried to calm himself. Too much. The attack on his family, his home, all that death and guilt, Duncan, losing the Wardens before he had even known them, and now lost and set on from monsters and men. 

Maker, how much burden can you make one person carry? 

Thoughts of Ness, an image of her pale blonde hair in the sun flashing clear in his mind, and his rage broke to grief. If only he had one person to share this with, one person to help him breathe. His blurred vision cleared as the tears fell. Chest tightening with the pressure of a vise, Raviathan struggled to keep his breathing even. 

She’s safe. That’s all you could do. She’s safe. 

No sooner than the thoughts entered his mind, the image of Shianni sitting like a broken doll on her bed forced into his thoughts like a guilty secret. 

_Not allowed to scream._

_Nothing you do can stop them._

Clenching his hands in frustration, Raviathan pushed the intrusions away. Stop this! For thirteen years you’ve studied control. Stop it. 

Raviathan let out his breath slowly. In his mind’s eye he drew the templates of spells. Circles and lines flared like brightest flame in his mind. Their arrangements merged and overlapped to form ruins and patterns, swirled to create meaning and form, patterns of creation, of power, of peace. 

He held the images in his mind, clearer and more brilliant than anything that could be made by an artist’s brush. The discipline came in holding the images of power with precision. Every hair thin line, every swirl of directed energy, every interfolded ruin had to be held as one image. 

Deep inside, deep into the core of his being, beyond the secrets and fears, his second heart sang to him. Like a second sun, it burned him clean. Raviathan resisted the urge to rub his chest. Ness had touched his heart. She had reached that space inside him, had touched it with her own soul. Dear Maker, how precious she is and will always be. 

A peaceful melancholy settled over him. The power cleared his mind. The years of discipline reasserted his control. 

Would he see her again? 

Would he want to? She would marry another. Though he wished her happiness, he didn’t think he could bare that pain. She was gone. 

With his anger gone, he wondered about her future. And what about the families of the people he had just killed? Did they know what their loved ones had planned? What of their children left undefended with the coming Blight? What would the dead villagers’ kin think upon finding the bodies? More rage for the remaining Wardens? More people to hunt them, to add to the price on their heads? Traitors to the King and murderers. 

That whole town would be destroyed, corrupted. If the templars couldn’t get the villagers out, would they be slaughtered outright or dragged underground as the soldiers at Ostagar feared? 

All the possibilities Raviathan had when they first arrived kept dying away. While Raviathan had no clue how to help the villagers, at least their little band had options before. Now as they marched away, he had to admit defeat. His first chance at being the Grey Warden he was supposed to be, and he failed. That hurt most of all. Duncan or any of the Wardens who had fallen at Ostagar would have known what to do, how to organize the people left behind by the bann, what to say to get the people’s loyalty. They could have gotten results.

Instead, Lothering got two incompetence as lost as a blind man left in a forest to die. No illusions, not anymore. They had failed. 

Maker, what are we going to do? We can’t save even this little village. How are we supposed to save this nation? How are we supposed to get armies together? I don’t know which direction to turn, just that everything I’m doing is wrong, and I don’t know how to make it right. Maker, how do we get through this? 

The clink of metal armor caught Raviathan’s attention. Startled, he turned to see Alistair running past him. 

“Darkspawn!” 

Raviathan’s brain blanked for a second before understanding slapped him to the present. “Ah, shit. Venger!”

The dog’s muscles bunched as he raced forward. His brown form blurred past Alistair, the dog’s claws skittering on the stone ramp up to the highway. A snarl followed by the fainter sounds of ripping sent a chill down Raviathan’s spine. Maker, bless that dog for being on our side. 

Alistair’s iron grey sword started an upward swing as he neared the highway proper, and that’s when Raviathan felt them. A crawl under his skin as if his blood had turned into writhing maggots, the low acid burn crawling through his muscles, the absolute wrongness of the taint awakening in recognition of its like, all spurred Raviathan faster. 

From the vantage of the ramp, Raviathan saw the rest running to catch up. Sten had a greatsword unsheathed, the leather strap of his scabbard slung over his unarmored chest. Leliana reached for a sword and dagger that would be more appropriate to close combat. The blue swirl of frost energy gathered around Morrigan’s staff. 

Though not the companions he would have chosen, they were here, rushing into danger with him. 

All thoughts of the others left as Raviathan faced a genlock. Maker, would he ever get used to the disgusting creatures? The taint in his body pulled him forward while the rest wanted nothing more than to get away from the unholy creatures. Repulsed, Raviathan’s mouth curled in a snarl as he charged forward. 

Spittle hissed out from yellowed fangs, the genlock’s face contorting in hate. Nothing else in the creation compared to its soulless, black eyes. Horror and disgust warred in Raviathan, his blades seeking to end this thing that should never have been. 

Metal scraped against metal. Sparks flew from Raviathan’s blade. Shouts from his companions filled his ears, a companion to the shriek of metal. Raviathan cursed when his weakened blade bent back out of shape. Furious, he slammed his blade into the genlock’s face. The monster dodged the clumsy attack only to have Raviathan’s foot ram into its chest. The thing howled as it tumbled off the edge, feet over fangs. 

Spinning, Raviathan took in the scene. Crates littered the highway to create defensive barriers in the darkspawn’s favor. Alistair had the upper hand with the hurlock he had taken, Venger biting at the monster’s legs. Leliana and Morrigan worked together against another. Leliana’s jabs kept the hurlock’s attention while Morrigan cast her spells. 

The qunari’s greatsword slashed up in a powerful swing that stunned Raviathan in its ferocity. He had a second to admire Sten’s thick musculature before running to join him. If that was the giant’s strength after weeks of starvation, at full health he would be a terror. 

Sidestepping out of the greatsword’s path, Raviathan flanked the hurlock. Once surrounded, the monster stood little chance. Raviathan leapt in to score a hit and out before the monster could turn to stop him. With the hurlock distracted, Sten’s weapon swung in a mighty arc to cut the creature down. The monster took the hit, its sword slowing but not stopping the heavy blade from digging into its side. Back and forth, Sten and Raviathan hacked until the hurlock’s blood flowed from a dozen cuts. 

Swinging the massive blade overhead, Sten sliced the hurlock from neck to sternum. Black blood spurted in thin geysers from the gaping wound. Dazed but still alive, the hurlock stepped forward, haltingly, before falling to its knees. Bubbles of black blood popped from the creature’s lips before it finally fell. 

A shudder coursed through Raviathan, for the taint that crawled inside him, for the brutality of that last hit. Not two months ago, this lowly elven dock worker, whose main ambition was to be a good husband to his precious wife, would never have guessed that this is where his life would lead him. The violence Raviathan had witnessed in the last month was paralleled only by the purge on the alienage from when he was a child. 

The fighting over, the group took a moment to let the adrenaline fade. Morrigan appeared the most affected. Her pale skin turned nearly bone white, her thin frame visibly trembling. Still unused to combat, Raviathan felt much the same. Alistair and Venger fared the best. Though Sten tried to hide his strain under an impassive face, Raviathan saw the tightness around his eyes and pallor under his bronze skin. 

He needed to attend to Sten’s wound. Maker, how much strength of will did the man have to keep going as he did?

“Please, don’t hurt us.” 

Venger’s head cocked at the voice from behind the crates at the broken end of the highway. 

“You’re safe,” Raviathan called back. 

A dwarf peeked out from behind the pile of crates. A second head, one with enormous blue eyes, popped up next to him. Raviathan felt a strange urge to laugh. He stamped down on the impulse, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to stop. The last thing anyone needed was to see him caught in hysteria. 

“Right,” said the dwarf. “Blimey, what a mess.” 

Though she tried not to stare openly, Morrigan couldn’t hide her astonishment. Raviathan’s lips quirked. He at least had a passing familiarity with dwarves who traded in Denerim. Though less common than elves, he had seen their like in the Market District. No dwarves or qunari in the Wilds, then. 

After a moment, Raviathan wondered about the vacant stare of the younger dwarf. His beardless face had a childlike quality to it. Innocent. “Is he alright?”

“Oh, yes. Say hello, Sandal.”

“Hello.” 

A patient smile made the older dwarf’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “A bit touched, you know.” 

Raviathan nodded. “Take care. Hurry north.” 

With an assessing glance at the bodies of darkspawn, the dwarf sighed. “Leaving as soon as I can replace my ox. Thank you. For saving us.”

The pair seemed well enough if frightened by the darkspawn. Giving a final nod in acknowledgment, Raviathan left the dwarves bustling about to right the mess. 

Ahead of him, the ancient highway stretched, cold and implacable as fate. 

As they left, Raviathan spared a last backward look at Lothering. The horde would overrun the village, their scouts already infiltrating the surroundings. If the villagers did not leave soon, they would be trapped. The land that generations of farmers had poured their lives into would be tainted, family homesteads lost, more blight sickened creatures infected. 

Leliana was both right and wrong. They would never be able to save everyone, not with two inexperienced Wardens and a handful of misfits. Fulfilling the treaties held the only hope they had to gather the resources of this nation. Ferelden may already be lost, but any resistance gave the Wardens of Thedas more time to rally. Futile, but that was the only path Raviathan could see.

And yet… The Grey Wardens protected the weak. They were a living shield against the darkspawn. Shoulders slumping, Raviathan had to admit that as protectors, they were an utter disgrace, abandoning the people who needed them most. He had never known defeat this complete in his life. 

Turning to follow the group, he caught Alistair gazing at the town, the man’s brow furrowed. Raviathan’s jaw tightened in resentment. Nothing they could do, damn it! 

Angry, Raviathan strode past Alistair. Keep going. Whatever happened, their task was set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this section in the story took a long time to write! Sorry, everyone. For those of you who have kept with the story, my heartfelt thanks. 
> 
> Good news is that I’ve got a decent head start on the next few sections. There’s still a lot to be done, but quite a bit has been written and plotted, so hopefully no long hiatuses for a while. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who hit the kudos button or put this story on their bookmarks. Special thanks and love to all who commented and left reviews. We all need encouragement, and it’s good to know there are people who care. I know there have been a lot of hiccups in getting chapters out, but to everyone who reads this story, I hope you’ve enjoyed so far and continue to do so. <3


	41. Eyes of Wolves – Hostile Allies

“Are you feeling better?” Leliana asked.

When the nest of giant hunting spiders as big as Venger had attacked them that morning, Alistair had quickly made up his mind that he hated the foul things. Their scuttling movement and clicking mandibles creeped him out almost as much as darkspawn. Not to mention those eyes, glittering faceted pools of inky blackness that craved him for meat. Alistair shivered at the memory.

A bristled nightmare of a creature had leapt at him, its weight overwhelming him. Hard pincers snapped before his eyes. Screaming as he tried to keep the creature from ripping at his face, Alistair wrestled the monstrous arachnid with every ounce of strength his taxed muscles carried. Viscous fluid dripped from the clacking mandibles. Poison, saliva, or something worse, Alistair didn’t know. For those few panicked seconds, his mind yelled, ‘Maker, don’t let it touch me!’

On his back and struggling, Alistair couldn’t stop, couldn’t even see the other spider scuttling up. Fangs plunged into his calf and poured venom into his leg. Fire raced in his blood. The poison turned his leg to a torment of mind-bending agony as if a hoard of fire ants swarmed and bit at his flesh.

His companions had killed the two spiders just as Alistair’s muscles gave out. Had they been a heartbeat later, half of Alistair’s face would have been chewed off.

An aura distorted Alistair’s vision. He remembered Raviathan standing over him, yelling something and slapping his face, but Alistair couldn’t get his muscles under control enough to do more than utter nonsensical sounds. Instead, he stared up into the worried face that left green and red trails whenever the elf moved.

The rest remained a blur in his memory. His leg felt constricted, throbbing under too tight a splint. He remembered Sten’s jostling gait as the qunari ran with Alistair on his back. Every step Sten took shot more fire into his leg until Alistair prayed he would pass out. All else in his mind consisted of green smudges of forest and the shouting of his companions.

Later, once the antivenom worked its way through his system, Alistair learned of what happened on the journey. At Raviathan’s orders, Morrigan had turned into a bird and scanned the area for Dalish. The two Dalish hunters, having heard tales of the Witch of the Wilds, showed a cautious respect for Morrigan, enough that their party could approach without being shot on sight.

Talking quickly, Raviathan explained about the treaty and spider bite. Though inherently distrustful, the hunters had relented and taken them to the Dalish camp. The Keeper himself had seen to Alistair’s injuries. If only Alistair had been aware enough to see the Keeper’s magic. His memory retained only vague impressions of hands moving over him, lines of green light, and the faint chanting of a language almost forgotten.

The antivenom the Dalish kept did most of the work, but Zathrian’s power eased the swelling and sped his healing. Left on a cot near the other injured elves, Alistair had been enduring stomach cramps and pain in his extremities for most of the day. Once the cool of evening settled, the Dalish antivenom had worked most of the spider toxin out. What remained of Alistair’s injuries was a mild headache, occasional tremors, and a clamminess that clung to his skin.

Stunned at the number of elves lying stricken around him, Alistair wondered at their number. Had the taint been responsible for his speedy recovery? His limbs felt stiff, almost wooden, as he paced to one of the benches near a small fire pit. That small effort left him shaking and exhausted. Though his recovery was remarkable, Alistair still felt disturbingly fragile.

Huddled under a few blankets to keep the chill away, Alistair wondered where the rest of his companions had gotten off to. The witch was probably off terrifying small animals. Good riddance.

After a moment, he spotted Sten in a quiet corner of the camp. The giant sat in contemplation, his lips moving in prayer. Alistair had seen enough prayers back in his templar days to recognize religious meditation at a glance. Watching the qunari struck Alistair anew with the man’s complete foreignness.

Just what did qunari pray to? The Chantry vilified the northern heathens as violent, unthinking barbarians needing the enlightenment of the Chant if they were to be saved. How much of that was true? From what little he had gleaned, the qunari didn’t worship a god. So what did they worship? Dwarves had paragons. Could it be something similar? Ancestors perhaps? The giant didn’t exactly encourage small talk though.

What would Leliana think of Sten? What would she make of his religion? Alistair badly wanted to talk to someone about what was in his head. Of all his companions, he trusted her opinion the most.

“Feeling much better.” Alistair managed a weak smile. Heat and cold kept rushing through him, but the trembling in his hands had at least stopped.

“Then you are to eat.” Leliana sat next to Alistair and handed him a bowl of supper like her own: venison, roasted wild roots, and a thick slice of pale cheese.

“What’s this?” Alistair took a moment to smell the cheese first. His stomach gnawed at him as it always did, but a brief moment to appreciate the aroma of the soft cheese made his eyelids half close in anticipated pleasure.

“Cheese made from halla milk.”

The first bite filled his mouth with cream as smooth as pure butter fat. A little moan escaped his throat as the cheese melted. Cream gave way to a nutty woodiness, like pine seeds and sweet tree sap. Aged to bring out a heavier richness added more complexity, the cheese took on flavors similar to smoked wood. If there was ever a time they could settle down, he’d buy a barrel of halla cheese every year for his own personal stash.

Alistair sniffed at a root. After that miserable trek through the wilds, he’d had enough of roots. The honey coating on these offered a nice change compared to the bitter roots of the swamp, but the weeks of starvation with the hard roots cramping his stomach made him leery of eating more.

“They’re so beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Hmm?” Alistair had to stop thinking of his stomach to understand the bard.

Leliana’s wistful smile answered him as she watched the Dalish.

The dancing firelight gave warmth and animation to the gathered faces. A redheaded elf with tattoos running from the corners of his mouth to the corners of his eyes told a story, his voice low and dark to draw in his audience, his arms emphasizing and shaping the tale. All the elves gathered around, working at some task as they listened: mending clothes or shaping leather, weaving baskets, carving wood, or fletching arrows.

Elven eyes shown from the evening shadows, glowing points of vivid color in the darkness. Many of Fereldan’s nobles claimed to be descended from Hafter, the first teyrn of Ferelden, who was supposedly the son of a werewolf. The legend explained the Fereldan people’s natural tenacity and loyalty, a point of pride among the people. Looking out at the Dalish, Alistair wondered if the elves had a cat ancestor somewhere.

By the main campfire, a solemn elf with a high forehead and long nose accentuating his thin face showed Raviathan how to make something involving sharpened sticks and flexible strips of bark. The two sat close with their heads together, their fine-boned fingers working in a graceful dance to construct some item. Now that Raviathan wore Dalish leathers that suited him, Alistair wondered at the strange way the elf fit in with the Dalish and how he stood out.

Though not as dark as Duncan, Raviathan’s coloration marked him as something exotic amongst pale Fereldans. The clan had only a few with the same dusky skin, all exchanges from other clans up north. The Dalish seemed to accept the new elf well enough, and fitted with Dalish armor, Raviathan should have fit in with the clan. But something in his manner set him apart, though Alistair couldn’t say what that was.

The elves had an almost unconscious need to touch each other, a simple squeeze of a comrade’s shoulder or caress of another’s arm as they spoke. Raviathan had kept his distance from everyone in the party, all except Venger, but as Alistair watched, he realized that the affection the elf shared with Duncan and the dog mirrored the way all the elves in the clan were with each other.

Seeing the Dalish filled Alistair with a jealous longing he never expected. The affections the elves shared came naturally, a sense of belonging that Alistair had ached for as far back as he could remember.

While the clan accepted Raviathan, the rest of the party continued getting hostile glances. Bright flashes of elven eyes watched them from the shadows, their gazes a warning that while the party might be tolerated for the sake of the treaty and fellow elf, there would be nothing but enmity between them.

“It’s like we’re in a different world here,” Leliana said with a reverent cadence. “They way the light touches their skin, it’s like they’re lovers.”

Alistair’s brow creased in puzzlement at the bard’s phrasing, but as he thought about her words, it made sense.

“You know what I mean,” she said at his look. “It’s like the sun pulls light out of them, as if they’re the first light’s long lost children. They’re luminescent as fine pearls, waiting for their reunion with the sun on the morrow. But firelight also brings an ethereal warmth. It seems almost magical, like fireflies drifting in a summer breeze. I feel as if we’re in a world of spirits and only their eyes look out at us from another realm. Brilliant as jewels, but that’s why they flash.”

It was a bit too poetic for Alistair’s taste, and his inclination was to scoff, but Leliana’s observations had some merit. “You should make a song out of that.”

“Maybe I will,” she replied.

A faint smile played upon Alistair’s lips as he thought of Leliana. Out of all of them, he was closest to her. They had the Chantry in common for one, though their views couldn’t be more different, and some of her ideas were queer. While he couldn’t help but shake his head at a few of her odd notions, like how the Maker was in every living thing, he found her devotion charming. Well, charming when she didn’t come off as a nutter. Prophecies from the Maker? Did she really believe that?

Even so, Leliana did have a way of charming everyone. So patient too. And brave. Sten did not intimidate her, and she could even put up with that horrible witch. Though she dressed simply and did not mind getting her armor dirty, her auburn hair usually left in a tousled mess, she carried an air of femininity.

In some odd ways, Leliana reminded him of Lady Isolde, at least more than she reminded him of the servants. Servants bustled about and shouted threats or made crude jokes. But Leliana wasn’t like the sisters and mothers of the Chantry. Maybe it was her love of poetry or how she admired beautiful things that was more like Isolde. Not that the servants were dullards, but there was a refinement to Leliana they didn’t have. It made him wonder about her. What had she been before she joined the Chantry?

He thought she might be a lady, but she was too pragmatic and skilled with a bow. In Ferelden, women often trained in combat, but Orlesians didn’t have the same attitudes of ladies learning the warrior arts. Leliana hadn’t been a servant or some farmer either. The daughter of a merchant who had hopes of moving up in status by educating his daughter to marry a low level noble? That didn’t explain how she had learned to fight. She hadn’t answered many of their questions, and Alistair considered the mystery of her more intriguing for it.

In any case, he found their conversations enjoyable even if he felt nervous and a bit affected when talking to her. She didn’t seem to mind though. “You’re not at all put off? We didn’t exactly get the warmest reception.”

“I’m surprised you remember.” She laughed. “The way you babble when you’re delirious!”

Alistair blushed, but he couldn’t be mad. “Please tell me I didn’t go on about the time I was in a fishing boat that wasn’t moored and drifted out into Lake Calenhad.” He ducked his head to hide his smile when she laughed. “I got the worst sunburn before anyone realized I was missing.”

She covered her smile with a hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh so.”

Alistair shrugged. Laughter he could deal with.

“As for the Dalish, we are unfamiliar to them. Even Rav was having a difficult time.”

Alistair’s brow furrowed as he looked over at the gathered elves. “Are we talking about the same elf, because he doesn’t look like they’ve given him a hard time.”

“Not now. When we arrived, the Dalish were quite standoffish. All day he’s been going around, helping with the halla, talking with the hunters and craftsmen.”

“How have you been doing? With the Dalish, I mean.” Leliana had such an easy way about her, Alistair was sure she could charm her way into their good graces.

Leliana’s warm voice turned as sweet as cinnamon frosting on a hot roll. “There was this one boy in love. It was the most precious thing ever. Dalish courtship isn’t like any that I’ve seen before, but after talking to them both, love wins the day. They’re going to be handfasted by Zathrian in a few days.”

“Love wins the day? I don’t think that’ll work against the darkspawn.”

“Silly.” Leliana cocked her head as she studied the elves. “I could be wrong, but I think they respect him more as a Grey Warden than as a fellow elf.”

That couldn’t be true. If so, why was he ignored, again?

The jealousy that had been gathering at the back of Alistair’s mind turned to loneliness so strong it made his chest ache. He couldn’t even see the elves anymore. The two of them were Grey Wardens. That was suppose to be a bond. And they were the only two left. Raviathan made such an effort for the Dalish, but all he got was anger, contempt, and distrust. Why wasn’t he good enough?

Visions of the Wardens tumbled through Alistair’s mind, fragments of when he had been happiest.

Waking up from the nightmare after drinking in the taint, and though horrified by the visions, he saw only respect from the Grey Wardens around him. They had no doubts about him, no looking down on him or pushing him aside. He was their brother, without question. Men twenty years his senior treated him like a comrade, a person deserving of respect.

A few days after he and Duncan returned to Denerim, Levine called Alistair over to share drinks with his fellows. During the journey to Denerim, Alistair half expected the other Wardens to be cold, at least until they got to know him, but no. They treated him as if he belonged. They enjoyed his company, were proud to call him a brother. When Levine invited him, the five Wardens had talked for hours, all telling stories. They didn’t get bored of him, didn’t tell him he was nattering on. They laughed with him.

Gregor’s stories of the Anderfels fascinated Alistair. Levine shared adventures of his childhood in Orlais. Rodden spun a tale of finding a cave with dragon bones scattered within when he lived in Nevarra. Trying to sell them led to trouble, which is how he wound up with the Wardens. Merrin claimed to have ties to one of the royal families of the Free Marches. Though Alistair never remembered the royal houses Merrin talked about, the exploits of the royals never ceased to make him laugh.

Other times flashed through Alistair’s mind. Walking down a corridor and Marcus patting him on the back after a grueling training session. Marcus worked him hard, but unlike Alistair’s first days of rigorous training with the Warden, both of them were drenched in sweat from the workout instead of just him. Marcus’ eyes had crinkled at the corners when he told Duncan that Alistair was coming along quickly. Duncan’s pride in him made Alistair feel as if he were glowing from the inside.

Once Tamriel took him aside and showed him some of the basics with bow and crossbow use. The reserved elf rarely talked to anyone. Just the fact that Tamriel made an effort meant everything to Alistair.

From all the nations of Thedas, he had brothers who accepted him without question. Like a true family. They cared for him because he was one of them. He didn’t need to be anything other than what he was. His past didn’t matter, not his heritage or his upbringing.

He missed his Warden brothers, names and faces who had been his companions, who had teased him and laughed with him. And Duncan. Worst pain of all was Duncan. His kindness, his patience, his wisdom and warmth. Maker it hurt!

A cool hand covered his forehead. A cross baritone snapped, “He wasn’t suppose to have any food until he was feeling better.”

“He was,” Leliana said, alarmed. “He said he was.”

Raviathan huffed and removed his hand. Alistair didn’t want that. The coolness had been a relief. “He’s still hot. Alistair, you need to go to bed.”

“Bed?” Right now he couldn’t even contemplate walking.

“Come on, Leliana. Give me a hand with him.”

Together, the two helped Alistair stumble to his tent. Leliana left while Raviathan undressed him to his small clothes and got a nightshirt on him. With much huffing, the elf pushed Alistair into his bedroll. Alistair just wanted to curl up and sleep until the world was alright again. Wanted sleep, but the room kept spinning, making him sick. The blankets felt hot even as he shivered from a chill. Wanted to sleep but couldn’t stay still. The tent kept trying to tumble around him.

The cool hand was back on his forehead, and Alistair stopped any attempts at struggling. His eyes closed as his dizziness faded.

“Silly boy,” Raviathan said quietly, his voice gentling to the tone he had used when talking with that child in Lothering. “If you’re not better by tomorrow, we’re going to have to leave you behind.”

“No,” Alistair said, struggling again. “I don’t…”

“Shh. Calm yourself. You need to get some sleep if you’re going to get better.”

Alistair sighed and settled back. “That feels good,” his voice croaked. The tent finally stopped spinning and settled into a less vomit-inducing sway.

“What does?”

“Your hand.” Alistair wasn’t sure, but he thought he felt the elf’s fingers caress his forehead and temples as he fell into sleep.

~o~O~o~

“Aww! Do I have to eat this?”

Raviathan glared at the templar. “It’s just cauliflower.” They had been damn lucky to get the winter vegetable this late in the season. The finicky plant grew well near the hot springs of the forest, protected from the winter’s frost.

Brows lowered in a scowl, Alistair stared at his plate. “But I don’t want to.”

“It’s healthy.” Stupid shem. Perfectly good food, and that spoiled, over-fed moron wanted to waste it. He knew elves who would brawl for that little scrap of food, especially in the long winter months. Raviathan munched resentfully on a floret. Shems. Never happy with what they got.

Raviathan glared at his plate. In all honesty, the fare was a bit bland. If only they had some spices. A little black pepper and salt would have helped. With an inward sigh, Raviathan thought back to his beautiful old stove. Three generations of love infused that iron hearth. Back home, he could have made a cheese sauce good enough to make people eat their fingers.

“But…” Alistair’s helpless pleading only annoyed Raviathan further. Big dumb brown eyes. You’ve got nothing on Venger, shem. “It looks like brains.”

The little poke Alistair gave his cauliflower clarified the image.

Raviathan snatched the vegetable off Alistair’s bowl. “Don’t complain to me when your stomach starts growling tonight.” Eyes fixed on Alistair, he took a savage bite, devouring the half head of cauliflower in ravenous glory.

“Yeesh. Remind me not to get between you and your veggies.”

Snorting, Raviathan stalked off to finish the rest of his food in peace. He scowled at his cauliflower. It didn’t look like brains. Just… well, not like brains. Not really.

Maker damn that stupid shem.

Morrigan’s low chuckle greeted his ears. “One would think after all his complaints about hunger, he would not be so picky when presented with a delicacy.”

Letting his tension out in a soft breath, Raviathan slight smile coaxed one in return from his fellow apostate. “You never went hungry in your time in the Wilds, did you?”

“Unless I was being punished, no. The food we had was not always appetizing, but Mother taught me quickly not to complain.”

Sounded like elven families. Even the fortunate children who had enough to eat had only to look at the many beggars with protruding bones to know fate could be fickle. The children too thick to learn from observation had parents who would teach that lesson in practice. Granted, a single cauliflower alone would not stave off hunger, but elves appreciated every scrap they got.

“You have never used a staff?”

Surreptitiously checking that no one was in earshot, Raviathan shook his head. “Too obvious. My aunt missed using one though.”

“I could not imagine being without one, not for the type of magic that is needed on this journey.”

“I wouldn’t know the difference.”

Firelight glowed off her hair as she shook her head. “‘Tis strange to me, alien even, but the same could be said from your side as well.”

“Indeed.”

“Yet, I wonder. We will be leaving this forest at some point, going into the cities of men. Should I learn to hide? Would that even be possible?”

Studying her, Raviathan nibbled his lower lip. “You’ll always be an outsider. Armor or commoner clothing would disguise you from a distance, but your eyes mark you.”

She watched him, her odd eyes measuring. Jewel tones and flashing eyes differentiated elves from a distance, even more so at night. The color of her eyes fit in well with his kin, but her eyes lacked the flash and liquid depths that characterized his race as much as their ears and grace. Among humans, the color marked her as something other. Among elves, the flatness made her too human. She fit in nowhere.

“You do not ask, but you want to know.”

Raviathan nodded.

“A normal question. You need not be so hesitant.”

That wasn’t true. Did Morrigan not realize how prickly she could be on certain topics? He could only guess at what would bother her or not. The stress of dealing with so many strangers added to her reticence, but a number of subjects bothered her on their own.

“In truth, I do not know if my eyes were always such or not. No mirrors existed in our little hut.”

“Then how do you know about the color of your eyes? From Flemeth?”

Instead of answering, she nibbled at her food. So she was touchy about the subject after all.

While eating without looking too closely at his remaining cauliflower—damn that templar idiot—he wondered if her eyes resulted from her shapeshifting ability. If so, what effect would that have on him? He loved the heritage passed down from his mother’s line. Mermaids and savage freedom, a legacy of mysticism and strength of will was a heady thing despite the uglier truth behind the stories his mother had told.

More though, his eyes had as much a part in how he saw himself as his magic. Could he give that up? Yellow eyes on an elf wouldn’t attract added attention, but Raviathan had to admit to some vanity. His looks garnered envy among humans as well as a strange respect all beings carried for the exotic and beautiful.

The abilities Morrigan possessed flew from the pages of children’s fantasy tales. Fantastic stories Raviathan had shoved aside belief in long ago, yet here she sat next to him, an offer of power even his aunt couldn’t have conceived of. He couldn’t deny that potential just for the sake of his eyes. Such a dismissal would be selfish and stupid.

His chest tightened at his final choice. Maker, he hoped his eyes didn’t change.

“I had a mirror, once.” Morrigan’s voice whispered as quiet as the night breeze.

Raviathan had to bring himself back to remember what they had been discussing. He didn’t speak though, just let her talk as she would.

“T’was gold. It glittered prettily in the sun. Facets catching the light as I turned it to and fro. I’d not seen its like before.” A sad smile touched her lips. “For the first time, I saw how I looked. Before then I had only glimpses in the still pond water. Muddy shadows of what I was. This though. This was a perfect reflection of the world, yet it seemed a pathway to another place. Imagine, to see yourself for the first time. I was in shock, and then I was mesmerized.”

Taking his time to consider and choose his words, Raviathan finally said, “We know magic. We know its laws and feel the energies in ourselves. Our understanding takes away the mysticism even though there are and will always be mysteries and unanswered questions. Sometimes though, I understand when others talk of magic as something mystical, something of infinite possibilities that can’t be explained. To see who you are for the first time, no illusions to cloud your vision. To see yourself clearly and all your own possibilities, it is a kind of magic.”

The gleam that entered her eyes as he spoke told him he said exactly what was in her heart. “You speak so eloquently.”

One corner of his mouth tugged up into a half smile. “At times. Not nearly as often as I’d like.”

Her light chuckle warmed her face. “A word smith in the making, perhaps.”

“That, I make no claims to,” Raviathan said with a laugh. He considered her. “I haven’t seen the mirror. You don’t travel with it?”

Her face lost it’s humor. “Mother found it. When she discovered how I had acquired it, she was furious. Smashed it on the ground. Called me a foolish child.”

“That was mean.”

“Well, I was!” Morrigan’s voice took on a sharpness he hadn’t heard before. “I risked my life stealing the mirror, and for what? Some stupid trinket that put me in harm’s way of the templars and city dwellers? The lesson may have been harsh but it was necessary.”

“Necessary? You were a child.”

“A foolish child.” She glared at him then, but he knew he was not the focus of her anger. “You have no illusions of the innocence of childhood. Not as an apostate living among templars in a city.”

Raviathan bit his lips. When he spoke, his voice was softened with regret. “True. It’s a lesson I learned early as well.”

They shared a look of understanding.

Contemplative, Morrigan turned back to her food, picking at the small flakes of fish left. “Do… do you still wish to learn how to shapeshift?”

Little trace of her earlier conspiratorial eagerness remained. Strange. What changed to make her reluctant to teach him? “Very much so.”

Taking a breath as if steeling herself, Morrigan started the lesson. “The key is to understand the animal you wish to become. You need to understand the animal at it’s very essence, the soul of the animal.”

Raviathan nibbled his lip as he thought. “The soul of the animal. What does that mean? From what I’ve seen of dogs and cats, no two have been alike.”

“I do not speak of personality. I speak of the essence. Even if they looked alike, you would never mistake a cat for a dog, would you?”

“No,” Raviathan had to concede, but the prospect of an essential nature escaped him. A cat’s slinky hunt remained distinct from Venger’s aggressive charge. If he thought about their differences, he could name many more, but the contrast of essence eluded him. “Could I learn to be a qunari then?”

Morrigan chuckled, relaxing at the question. “No. Not human or dwarf, either. You have noticed that when I shift, I still retain my yellow eyes? Tis most unusual for a raven, is it not?”

“Yes, I have. So this can’t be used to make cosmetic changes?”

“What I become is still who I am, what I am. What we are in this form we carry with us, always. If one is slender or muscled, it will be the same for their animal self. If you were to turn into a raccoon, for instance, you would be a bit smaller, more slender, and have darker fur. If Leliana could learn this magic, her raccoon self would have reddish fur.”

“Huh. But I can’t use that same ability to turn into a qunari?”

“What is this fixation you have on qunari?” She laughed. “No matter, but no. What is the soul of a qunari? How is that different from an elf? Personality is distinct from biology. Would an elf raised among qunari be any different than his qunari brethren?”

Troubled, Raviathan continued to nibble at the inside of his lip. _Sten is so much stronger than I am_. Even to himself, Raviathan hated admitting that. Humans thought little of elves, laughed or sneered at them. His kin could never be something as simple as a guard, let alone a soldier. Raviathan felt dirty, smaller on the inside, for wanting to be something else after spending a life rebelling at the limitations humans placed on him.

Casting a hidden glance at Sten, he couldn’t help but admire the qunari’s muscles, his easy intimidation. No one takes elves seriously. Even in a cage, Sten demanded respect. “So, what you’re saying is that we’re the same at a soul level?”

“A question for philosophers, I’m sure.” Her laugh held an intimacy that warmed her, made her more approachable. “In truth, once you have learned a form, finer distinguishing becomes nigh impossible. Swamp and kit foxes are so alike, the choice of one is what you will be. Once a raven, I cannot be a crow.”

“So, if you could become one of the tree leopards here, you couldn’t become one of the mountain leopards from the Frostbacks or one of the smaller swamp cats?”

“Timber wolf, snow wolf, or cloud wolf, they are brothers. With cats, they have to be distinctly different, enough that offspring would not be viable.”

Well, considering humans and elves could have healthy children together… No! Humans are nothing like my kin. “What could I turn into?”

Morrigan shrugged. “Whatever your heart fancies, provided you have learned to understand the animal you seek to become.”

Raviathan grinned. “A giant bird?”

“Like mother? Tis a challenge, to be sure. Creatures that have magic in their blood require greater skill.”

“So, no dragons just yet?”

She gave him a sly glance. “Perhaps. One day.”


	42. Eyes of Wolves - Uncharted Territory

Wind caressed Raviathan’s cheek as he walked through the deep forest. A breeze lifted the long strands of his hair, sweet as kisses. Silvered moonlight allowed him to pick his way along the little-used path. More than anything, the solitary walk in the dark of the wood eased away the tension that had been a constant ache in his shoulders.

Above, the leaves of ancient trees rustled, almost like whispers or laughter. Raviathan had never seen such trees in his life, not in the journey to Redcliffe or the quick crossing through the hinterlands, certainly not in the Korcari Wilds with its bogs and twisted brambles. Raviathan couldn’t name the trees, only knew a few of the most common. It gave the forest a sense of mystery, these trees that towered far overhead, taller than even the fortress of Ostagar. 

Ferns brushed against his thighs. His fingers trailed against their rough texture, and he breathed in the clean scent of deep forest and lush earth.

“You don’t belong here.”

Raviathan turned to find the voice. It sounded rusty, like old hinges. An old crow regarded him, a shadow among shadows, save for its red eyes.

“You should leave.”

The wind that had been soft turned cold. Tiny barbs of ice scraped his cheeks. Raviathan hunched his shoulders, drew his cloak tighter around him. The tree limbs above him stretched as he watched. They grew, thickened, reaching out, twisting together, blotting out the night sky. The wind grew, ice cutting his exposed skin.

“Leave.”

“I can’t.” There was a mission, something he had to do. What was it?

“Leave now.”

“I can’t.” The chill buffeted him, harsh as a slap. When he braved the cutting wind to look back up at the crow, more than a dozen perched along the tree limbs, all regarding him with red eyes glowing bright in the darkness.

“We will eat their eyes.”

Eat their eyes? Whose eyes? He had to turn his face away as the ice slashed his cheeks with tiny needles. Wetness trickled down his face and neck, soaked into his shirt. Was he bleeding, or was it the snow? Needles, scratching and scraping, stinging. Wind lashed his face. Wind? Wings. Claws. Raviathan stumbled back, batting away the crow.

“Eat your eyes.”

Beaks snapped at his fingers, powerful enough to break his delicate bones.

“No!” He flailed, stumbled over the underbrush he couldn’t see. “Get away from me!”

Sharp talons ripped the skin at his face, tore at his neck. Raviathan yelled, tried to punch the birds away. He rolled to hide his face from exposure, his arms the only shield he had from the talons that scratched the back of his skull. The crows picked at his cloak, pecked bloody grooves, bit his ears, raked at any vulnerabilities he had.

Snaps and scrapes continued to torment him with no release in sight. Raviathan yelled, swung out his arms when he could, cowered to protect his face when the talons sought out his exposed skin. Still the claws came, the talons struck, and those horrid beaks kept digging further in.

Snap, snap, snap.

Raviathan panted, not quite sure when the onslaught stopped, only that he cowered in a ball. He shook in the aftermath of the attack.

Carefully, he unwound. He stung all over as if having rolled in a patch of stinging nettles. Raviathan could feel the brush of ferns and bushes, but no light permeated through the forest. He touched his face gingerly, trying to figure out the extent of the damage. Sticky blood coated his skin, crusting in the cold wind to a tight mask. The gashes had rough edges, lacerations from ripping rather than the clean cut a blade would make.

When his fingers reached his eyelids, there was no outward roundness from his eyes. He couldn’t blink, the skin of his eyelids felt torn, pulsed with dull pain. His fingers probed, and with a sickening clutch of his gut, Raviathan felt the empty, tattered interior of his eye socket.

His skin stung where he touched open wounds, fingers shaking as the enormity of what had happened came to him. Blind. Can’t heal what’s gone. A pressure at the back of his throat warned him, and he bent over to vomit. The acid burned, a negligible pain compared to the rest. His stomach heaved in painful contractions, forcing him to empty everything he had.

Blind. He was in the woods, alone. How was he supposed to find his way out of the forest? Thorny bushes scraped hard branches against him as he rose. Stay? Hope for rescue? Who would come for him?

He took a few hesitant steps before his foot caught in a root. The tendons gave with a pop, a sound like an egg breaking, as he fell. Thorns poked at open wounds as his world spun in the fall.

Raviathan’s breath caught. He lay, paralyzed, from fear or pain or grief, he could not say. He would starve, or die of exposure, lost and vulnerable, no help and no way to save himself.

“Eat their eyes.”

“What?”

The crow sounded like he was near. “Eat their eyes. We will eat their eyes.”

Whose?

Another crow from a different direction, “Eat their eyes.”

Whose? He thought of the alienage. His father’s sad eyes, Soris’ clear blue and Shianni’s hazel gold eyes, Ness’ beautiful sapphire eyes that smiled when he played music for her. Not them. Please, not them.

The crows started to laugh. Their laughter carried away into the dark.

“Can’t protect them,” the crow laughed as he flew away. 

Loose earth brushed his cheek as he crawled forward, the thorn bushes scraping along his cut scalp.

When had he ever been able to protect them? He crawled, hoping to find the path, some way back.

Something large moved ahead of him. The low growl froze Raviathan at the bone. There was no fighting, no way to run. Raviathan stilled like a frightened rabbit, immobile except for his thundering heart beat. He heard the paws land as it neared, unhurried. Hot breath touched his face, something wet dripping on him, stinging his open wounds. Above, a growl, a rumble that vibrated the air around him.

I don’t want to die. Please. I don’t want to die.

~o~O~o~

Spots of sunlight escaped through the canopy that rose far above their heads, the light filtering down in an emerald latticework. The warm sun and peaceful greenery helped shake the last of the nightmare from Raviathan’s thoughts. Seems they had all slept poorly judging by the glum expressions and terse comments over breakfast. The Dalish hahren, Sarel, named the forest Setheneran, the Land of Waking Dreams, but that hadn’t prepared any of his group for the nightmares. It had taken an hour for Raviathan to shrug off his gloom, but he had other thoughts to occupy his mind.

The Dalish! As far back as Raviathan could remember, he had dreamed of the Dalish. The stories his mother wove lived for hours afterwards when he tried to sleep. His fantasies featured finding the Dalish, of having his magic honored as a rare and treasured thing. In his dreams he would become the best warrior leader of the tribe after single-handedly saving the hahren’s beautiful daughter from a fate worse than death. As a child, he and his two cousins had once attempted to leave to find the Dalish, a misadventure that led them through the streets of Denerim only to be pounced upon by bullies. Maker’s breath, what stories he would have for his cousins now.

Next to him, their guide Nijel wandered along old paths, a patient smile on his worn but regal face. Raviathan had enough awareness to know his enthusiasm must be trying, but the last two days had been some of the best since he left Denerim. Nothing could prepare him for actually seeing the wild elves. Stories could tell of how they lived free, but nothing could convey their attitudes towards their history and fierce devotion to preserving the remaining treasures of elven culture.

Days later, the rhythms of Dalish drum songs echoed inside Raviathan as insistent as a heartbeat. Visions of tattoos engraved in vivid colors greeted him when he closed his eyes, the designs feeling like the runes of old magic embedded in elven skin. He wondered if he could ask for a tattoo, then of which of the ancient gods he would honor with the rite, but in the end he left that ritual to the Dalish. He wasn’t one of them and had little right to adopt what they held sacred. One day, maybe, he would weave feathers into his braids, or wear the leather clothing they did, decorated with beautiful wooden beads polished to shine like gems.

His mother’s stories also hadn’t prepared him for the tribes suspicions or for the ‘flat ear’ comments. Possibly the biggest schism was that the Dalish didn’t consider him much of an elf, an attitude that continued to worry at Raviathan. True, he wasn’t Dalish and wasn’t going to take from a culture he didn’t belong to, but an elf was an elf, didn’t matter where they were born. He had the same feeling towards parents who pulled their children’s ears to make sure they were long enough, the poor crying babes. Instead of being guardians of knowledge for those willing to journey to learn, many of the Dalish held their gate keeping of history with arrogance, an attitude that surprised Raviathan but did little to cool his enthusiasm. He could understand that attitude towards the shems, but why hold an elf’s birth against him or her?

“Here. The trail leaves to the north.”

Raviathan nodded though he couldn’t quite make out the deer tracks Nijel had been showing him.

The elder elf laughed. “It takes quite a bit of practice, even in ideal conditions, and this soft earth doesn’t hold prints well.”

Thankful for the other elf’s understanding, Raviathan smiled. “I’m grateful Zathrian allowed you to be our guide.”

“I’m glad to still be of use! I can’t hunt like I once did, but it heartens me to see our skills passed down to new generations.”

From what Raviathan could glean through whispers and suspicions, Nijel wasn’t supposed to do more than make sure their party didn’t get lost with the secondary mission to find some trail of the missing hunting party. The education Nijel imparted wasn’t authorized, and as Raviathan wouldn’t be able to join the clan, prohibited to outsiders. “Have you trained many hunters?”

“Oh yes. My sons and daughter, nieces and nephews, my eldest grandchild, and even two flat ears such as yourself. I must say, for someone city born, you have remarkable skill with the halla. Many in the clan are thankful for what you did to help aid Elora in caring for them.”

“It was nothing.” Raviathan was not about to spill his secret magical ability even to the mage-sympathetic Dalish.

“Nothing? Our halla keeper is most skilled, and even she couldn’t solve that mystery.”

“Though there are no halla, we do have many animals in the cities. A calm hand is all. Do you get many city elves?”

“On rare occasions. There’s Lanaya, who you’ve met. Most are like you, eager, willing to learn, and full of some of the strangest stories that have been traded around for generations beyond counting. The stories one told about Dragon’s Peak seem fantastic.”

“Never wanted to visit a shem city?”

“I’ve thought of it. Just for the experience. I’ve been to Lothering and a few of the holdings on occasion. What I see reminds me why I stay away.”

Raviathan laughed at that though the subject was a bitter one. “Can’t say I’d recommend them, especially considering the travel to get there.”

“You have traveled far then?”

“From Denerim to Redcliffe to Ostagar, Lothering, and here.”

“Ethn ghi’las mar aravel.”

“What does that mean?”

“Safety guide your long journey.” Nijel proceeded to translate each word along with the delineations.

“Aravel? I thought those were the landships you use.”

“It’s the name we’ve give them, but the word means ‘long journey’, like the way march once only referred to a mark of land, then as the journey between marks, but can also refer to the movement of an army, a march. We don’t have much of the old language left, just bits now, but it’s a word from before we needed landships, from before the time of the shemlen.”

Raviathan fell silent as Nijel continued on about Arlathan and the old gods of the elves, a lecture spotted by observations of the forest. Raviathan’s chest ached at the monumental loss of history, his history, his cousins’, father’s, all the faces in the alienage he remembered, strangers at Ostagar bound by elven blood, the elven family in Lothering. We weren’t meant for the lives we lead now.

~o~O~o~

The low fire popped as Raviathan poked a log into a better position. Once he had heated the moisture out of the wood, the fire no longer struggled to keep alight. Fire came to him as easy as breathing.

A low moan sounded from Leliana’s tent. She had been thrashing in her sleep since Raviathan took his watch, the last of the group to do so. He glanced over at the tent as if he could discern her dreams.

His own dreams had been troubled of late. Shadows moving through the forest, hunting him. In these quiet moments he had time to reflect. Maker, his temper was starting to scare him. He raged after his mother died, felt that hot rage turn cold when Solyn died two years later. He knew injustice, knew anger, but he had never lashed out at other people like this.

Of course he knew why. Ever since his Joining, he felt hunted. Everything that happened afterwards just made his situation worse and worse with no relief in sight. He now had a bard who lied about her profession, a giant of a man who wore his disgust for Raviathan like a coat of armor, and a templar of all things. The Maker had a twisted sense of humor. That was the only sure thing he felt anymore.

Twenty years to live. If he lived. Death stalked the alienage like a starved cat. No one who grew up there thought of death as a stranger. Not a stranger, but Raviathan never felt the limit of his life before. Twenty years. Half his life was already gone. To think in those terms, it staggered him. Even if he could have children tomorrow, they would barely be of marriageable age by the time his death came.

He would never reach the age his father was now.

He would never have children.

Try as he might to make peace with that knowledge, both of his short life and dreams dashed, he couldn’t get over the sting. And that didn’t even account for the terror that loomed over him, shadowed his every waking thought, haunted his dreams.

Too much. Too big, too powerful, too annihilating evil.

How does one person fight a god?

Anger was the only thing that kept Raviathan from collapsing into tears, too paralyzed to go on. At times he could justify those moments when he had lashed out, and other times he kept going over what he had done or said and felt like an absolute shit.

Every single blight had destroyed nations. Not one country escaped the barren lands left from darkspawn invasions. Not one was left untouched by starvation, massive deaths from battles and attacks. Whole villages, cities even, gone. Nothing left but ruins and ghosts. Ferelden’s fate would be no different. This country, the only home he had known, would be crushed.

It was his responsibility to fight the blight, and he already knew he would fail. How did anyone keep their sanity when faced with that?

A violent kick from Leliana’s tent pulled Raviathan out of his thoughts. A few minutes later she emerged with her bedroll draped around her shoulders.

“Seems bad dreams are getting to all of us lately,” Raviathan said, his voice low so as not to wake the others.

She nodded, staring at the fire. They sat quietly a moment. Raviathan wondered if he should start getting breakfast ready. If the rest slept as poorly, they would be up earlier than usual.

“You’re good at keeping the fire going.” Leliana held her hands out to warm them. “I could barely keep embers alight.”

Raviathan shrugged one shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

He hadn’t wanted to talk about his dreams either. He set a pot to boil then added the beans that had been soaking for the past hour. Salt pork, dried carrots and tomatoes came next along with the few herbs Raviathan had gathered the day before. “You haven’t spent much time in the woods before.”

“No. A few hunts back in Orlais, but not like this. We had huntsmen to track and servants ready with lunch.”

“You had servants?”

“Not personally. I was invited on hunts by patrons.”

“Sounds like luxury.”

A wry, humorless smile twisted Leliana’s mouth. “There is a cost, no doubt about it, even if it’s not your gold. Nothing is free in the Imperial Court.”

Is that why she left for Lothering? Something to do with the Orlesian nobles? Possibly a scandal she wasn’t ready to speak of. “Why did you join us?”

She stretched her back and neck, then arms, probably wanting time to formulate her answer. “Seems we will speak of dreams after all. The night before you came, I had a dream, but more than a dream. I believe it was a vision.”

“Tell me.”

“In my dream, there was a great darkness. We think of darkness as an absence of light, something frightened away by the tiny light of a single candle. Darkness may hold the unknown, but there is no power to it save what we conjure in our own minds. But this, this was far more. The darkness pressed like a physical thing, dense and real. It loomed over the world, blotted out the sun. I do not know if it was alive, but there was… it was not unthinking, and that alone is terrifying. Then I heard a great and terrible noise, one that made me ache at the soul, as if my bones would be crushed. I stood on a peak, watching as the darkness unfolded. When the darkness swallowed the last remaining light of the sun, I fell. Or maybe I jumped.”

Raviathan sat for a moment, a fist pressed against his lips and eyes focused on the fire as he thought. “And you think this darkness is the blight?”

“What else could it be?”

“You seem certain this is a vision.”

“There is more.” Leliana shifted and huddled in her bedroll. “I woke early and decided to walk through the gardens to gain some clarity and distance myself from the remains of the dream. In the Chantry garden, there grew an old rose bush. It was an ancient, twisted thing. Gnarled and grey, full only of thorns. Nothing grew from it, not for years according to the other sisters. When I went to the garden though, it was a miracle. Overnight, a rosebud had formed and flowered. I saw this bush the day before, knew there was nothing but dead wood.”

Raviathan stared at her, lips parted.

“You believe me.” Leliana beamed. “I can see it. Who but the Maker could have given such a sign? Especially in the midst of winter when no roses bloom. It is like he stretched out his hand to show that even in death and ugliness, there can be beauty. You just need faith.”

That was her reason for joining them? Maker’s ass. He kept from laughing at his own curse, but he felt older, more cynical in the face of Leliana’s naivete. She wouldn’t understand, and he couldn’t explain, not without giving himself away. The bitter laughter stayed close to the surface, ready for an opportunity to escape. How the Chantry hated magic, locked away any who had it, tore children from families, and here, here was this sister who thought his magic was the Maker’s hand.

If the Maker watched them, he must have an incredible sense of irony.

The discussion ended as the others woke. Breakfast was ready by the time everyone had their equipment packed back up. They cleaned up, left, and Nijel continued his lectures on the forest, which Raviathan was grateful for.

The two spoke in low voices ahead of the rest, one elf imparting his wisdom to another, a wisdom that would only be shared with kin and not the rest of Raviathan’s party. In that act of keeping secrets, Raviathan felt he had gained a precious trust from the Dalish, even if Nijel was not the sole representative of the clan. That Raviathan was deemed worthy enough to be a student gave him enough of an emotional boost that he could forget his darker thoughts before dawn.

Nijel smiled with time-bought patience. “You’re as eager to learn as the others from the city. A shame that you will not be with us permanently. I have to keep reminding myself to keep from expecting more.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, not really. I keep trying to match you with the young ladies of the clan or the ones near who are of marriageable age.”

A sad smile touched Raviathan’s mouth. “I’m afraid I am no match. If I ran away a half year ago... but then I was still a child.” Maker, how different my life would be. But then he would never have met his Ness, and she was worth all the heartache and lonely nights. When he thought of fighting the blight and the impossibility of the task, it was her face he saw to give him hope. She was his rose, his reason to keep going, a sign of the Maker’s love if there ever was one.

Nijel’s hand on his arm brought Raviathan to attention. The elf motioned to the path before them, then got the attention of the rest. He gestured for silence then led them to a rise off the main path. From that vantage point, the party could see the brown bear that wandered in a small grove by the side of the trail.

“Normally I would say to leave him.” Nijel said, shaking his head sadly. “We’ve been getting blighted creatures lately. Their anger and disease is a plague. From here we can shoot in safety.”

Leliana and Raviathan both readied their bows. The bear howled with the first shots, whipping its great body around to find a target. From the vantage of safety, Raviathan couldn’t help but admire the bear’s thick muscles and power. To be a bear, with deadly claws longer than his fingers, thick fur to stave off winter, and mounds of flesh to keep from starvation and injuries, that would be an impressive step in the fight. Granted, a bear against a god wasn’t but a small step, but it was huge for Raviathan.

Leliana fired the killing shot, an arrow into the bear’s eye.

“Looks like he already got one soul.” Nijel pointed to a body in the glen.

When they approached for further inspection, the body turned out to be a templar. Nijel’s knuckles turned white on his gripped bow, his expression turning to cold rage. “One of the shems to hunt our clans and kill our keepers.”

Alistair shifted, uncomfortable, silently pleading Raviathan to keep his templar status secret. Even Leliana looked abashed.

“Mother and I often dealt with these fools, bent on finding lone witches who lived in the wilds, as if we posed any danger to them.”

“All we want is to be left alone. To find our own peace. But the shemlen harass us at the borders, or come to hunt us.”

“You have my sympathies, Nijel,” Morrigan said.

“You as well, daughter of the Witch of the Wilds. Why humans fear magic so, it is beyond me. Our keepers are leaders but so much more. We would be lost without them.”

Behind them, Sten growled.

Nijel shook his head at the body. “I would not honor this one with a funeral, but leaving the body will only provide a vessel for spirits to haunt. Come. We will burn him.”

That was more honor than the templars gave Solyn. Raviathan remembered her body, broken, violated, covered with her own blood, left in garbage to rot. Those templars couldn’t have been bothered to toss her body into the bay less than half a block away. No, she was a warning to all the other apostates. This is what happens to those who defy their laws.

The burning had to be done by Alistair and Leliana as the rest were too angry or in Sten’s case too apathetic.

“Your mother holds an honored place among us, Morrigan,” Nijel said.

Instead of the vitriol Morrigan usually displayed at the mention of her mother, she gave Nijel a respectful nod.

“You don’t seemed as bothered by magic as most city elves,” Nijel said to Raviathan.

He shrugged in response. “I never understood why people feared magic.”

Morrigan pursed her lips to suppress a smile. “A sensible attitude.”

~o~O~o~

Raviathan sighed. This idea, intriguing though it was, just kept dancing out of reach of comprehension. “I keep running up against the same problem.”

“You’re thinking too literally. This is magic, after all.”

“But magic follows laws just like everything else,” Raviathan protested to an unsympathetic Morrigan. “The law of the conservation of mass. How do you go from being eight stone to a bird that weighs less than a sword? What happens to your clothing? Your equipment?”

Morrigan’s impatient snort returned his questions. “From whom did you study such limiting magic?”

Frowning, Raviathan picked at a dirty fingernail. His hands had been getting so shabby lately. “The person who taught me was from Tevinter.”

Maker, he was tired of feeling incompetent all the time. Ever since he left the alienage, the world seemed bound and determined to make sure he knew how small and inexperienced he was. Kidnapped, beaten, nearly killed a half dozen times. The only time he had been forced to deal with the prejudice of humans was when he left the alienage. Since Vaughan’s invasion, every single day he had to deal with their contempt and disgust.

The Dalish had been a relief from the constant judgment of humans, but any tranquility he might have gained was shattered when that qunari glowered at him, and there Raviathan was, the small, pretty elf. As a bard, his only use might be as some exotic bird in a cage to sing for nobles, but to the giant, this pretty elf was worth less than a servant. The qunari’s narrowed glare made it clear that Raviathan was no leader, no one who could command respect despite his reluctant position in their group.

Annoyed, Raviathan squared his shoulders. Solyn’s education shouldn’t be dismissed so easily. “My teacher was quite good.”

“Good, perhaps, but limited.” Morrigan’s eyes grew flinty. “You asked to learn. Are you so arrogant to think the discipline given you is the only useful knowledge there is?”

At that he had to take a moment. He reached inside himself, saw his magic shining like his own personal sun. When he reached for magic to power a spell, usually to heal but lately to defend, it was like touching a second heart in his chest. That heart beat magic through him as essential to his life as his flesh heart beating blood. During meditation, that sun floated inside his chest in a place more vast than the night sky. The purest white light, blinding if ever seen by a visible eye, was like looking into creation itself.

Touching his magic had the effect of cooling his mind, making him feel more, both uplifting his thoughts and purifying his passions. His heart of magic cleansed like fire, burned away confusion and ego, filled him with hope and purpose, clarified his muddled mind. Months had passed since his last meditation. In the absence of meditation, his temper flared, his doubts ate away at him, and his pride took the place of patience.

“No, Morrigan. I’m sorry. I just wish I could understand how this works.”

Mollified, Morrigan sat next to him and ate a few of the winter berries Nijel had scrounged. “You know how the Fade works. For every item, every creature, every virtue and vice, there is one form of that, perfected through the thousands of sleepers over thousands of years. When I say raven, the word is only a sound, but the thought is another matter. The meaning goes beyond words to the Fade itself. It is the concept that you are becoming. And that concept filters through your sense of yourself. That is when the form becomes yours. When you fully understand what ‘raven’ is, what that means in the most singular of all possibilities of ‘raven’, in all of the complexities, forms, manifestations, then you can incarnate that idea into the physical.”

Raviathan let out his breath in a huff. “So. Even as a bear, I’ll be a smaller, darker bear.”

Morrigan laughed. “Is that so troublesome?”

Only that I’ll never be as strong as any creature whose form I take. Maker, is that my destiny?

The dull fear that chased him, always there, just below his conscious thoughts, came to the front. The respite of his dreams no longer provided sanctuary from the day. The blight. The archdemon.

His Joining stole the last peace of mind he would ever have. The best he could do was forget the fears that hunted him, but they found him, bit at him in the night.

What could one small elf do against an archdemon? He couldn’t fight off a bear on his own. How in the Maker’s name would he be able to stand against that monster?

Dread festered in his stomach, leeched his hope, made him want to give up and run just as he was starting.

Duncan, where are you? I can’t do this. I can’t be responsible for all this.

Raviathan studied his hands, dirty but his skin no longer splitting. Thankfully, he had been able to trade with a Dalish for some lanolin. The dry cracks along his knuckles and the backs of his hands began bleeding after the party had left Lothering. He flexed his fingers, testing the repair he had done to keep them supple enough to finely manipulate magical energies after the damage that combat wrecked on delicate nerves. The process of healing his hands enough for the subtle work of magic needed to be balanced with the skin toughening that swordplay and archery brought.

What would it be like to look down and see bird talons or bear claws?

“What about your mind? The brain of a bird is vastly different than what you have as a human. Do you think differently? How do you keep who you are, your memories and intelligence?”

Morrigan’s face puckered in annoyance. “Are you not a mage? How is this so difficult to understand? You are part of the Fade. You are merely bringing that aspect of the Fade into the physical. Is this no different than bringing fire? Fire that does not need fuel to feed from? No spark to create, nothing to continue its existence other than your will that it be so?”

“It’s not the same.”

Her strange, yellow eyes pinned him. “Make it your will that this be so. That is all you need.”

The concept continued to slither beyond his faculty. Raviathan could almost catch it, could almost feel this thing she tried to teach, but the maddening understanding continued to evade him in the misty shroud of his thoughts.

“But… your clothes and equipment…”

Morrigan’s disgusted growl carried as she walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been some time! good news is no more delays for the rest of 'eyes of wolves'. 
> 
> a bit of shameless promotion: i've been doing a bit of art. i'm a total noob, so don't get too excited. here's a tarot of 'rav the magician': http://usernamesaresilly.deviantart.com/art/The-Magician-Raviathan-Stylized-Tarot-633637302


	43. Eyes of Wolves - Chaos

Tea, fields of bright green tea plants touched with golden sun spread down the hillside, all as high as Sten’s chest. Why this familiar scent brought a pain of remembering, Sten couldn’t say, only that his heart ached to be here again.

“You have learned much from the traders.”

“A bit.”

The tamassran nodded at Sten’s response. “You are not ashamed to show your ignorance, especially to outsiders?”

Many had commented on his willingness to be imperfect. To speak a half-learned language was a show of weakness, one that few others attempted, aside from children who did not know better. Anything less than mastery was shameful. Why he did not feel as the others was a deviation to be watched. His instinct to learn, even fumble, had been scrutinized by his tamassran, his tama, from an early age. “No, Tama.”

Perhaps if he had been born with horns, the tamassrans would have been stricter.

The children’s name for her brought a smile to the matriarch. “You have been doing well under the Antaam?”

She already knew the answer. How he answered would be important. Not arrogant, not too humble. What truly concerned others outside the Antaam had been Sten’s questioning the Arishok’s decisions. The Arishok knew to trust Sten’s loyalty, that he spoke out of duty and desire to see the Antaam at their best. The others did not understand this.

“The mountains, the sky, the sea, they are eternal, changing but never changing. To move against them is foolish. To be one with them is wisdom.”

She gave no outward sign of her opinion of his answer. “Come. We have lingered long enough. It is good that you have returned.”

Returned in body and to the body of the Qun, she meant.

They walked back up the steep path that lead to the small farming center in Seheron. Clear water traveled down the miniature waterfalls made by a wide aqueduct to their right, a sign of peace, ingenuity, and prosperity, the pride of all that the Qun offered. Farmers carried bushels of clipped tea plants, the tiny tender new leaves that would make the prized white tea for the priests.

Why did it hurt to be here? He missed the light clothing that left his chest bare so that he could feel the steady heat of the sun on his skin. The heat and humidity warmed his muscles while occasional salt-touched breezes off the sea cooled his brow. The vastness of the verdant jungle, fragrant with black, fecund earth, stretched the length of his homeland. He missed this place, comforting in its familiarity and rules. He had been so cold in a land that smelled of dogs and damp. Why wasn’t he happy?

One of the farmers dropped her load, staring at Sten with an expression of loathing he had never encountered from another Qunari.

“Tama, what is wrong with her?”

“Do not call me Tama.”

Surprised by her tone, Sten glanced at his former teacher.

“You should be killed, but the Ben-Hassrath will reeducate you instead.”

Reeducate? The sting of his tama’s words warred with his fear of the Ben-Hassrath. A rage, a desire to hit, boiled in him. The rage struck like an earthquake, sudden and overwhelming, shaking his foundations until they cracked.

No! There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun. Do not fear the Ben-Hassrath for they do the duty of the Qun.

“Wise Tamassran, my life for the Qun. What have I done wrong?”

“I will not speak to a corrupted. You are for the Ben-Hassrath.”

Sten fell silent, confused but dutiful.

As they walked through the village, the farmers kept backing away when they saw him. He was corrupted? How?

A… a mage. Back in his vaguest recollections, like the memory of a memory, there had been… who? A pale face. A woman. A mage? Corrupted.

They passed through the gates of the outer fortress wall. People grew quiet as he neared. Their faces became blank, hateful, or horrified as they turned to him. Crap! Why couldn’t he remember?

Something… wrong. He kept trying to figure out what bothered him so, but the answer remained elusive, on the tip of his mind but dancing maddeningly out of his reach like a half-remembered dream.

Did his instincts tell him something was wrong? Should he run? The idea was anathema, on par with disobedience to the Qun. How could he disobey the Tamassrans? But… something itched, kept scratching at his awareness. Perhaps he did need reeducation. Better to have this feeling stop and resubmit to the Qun, to the peace that the Qun offered.

At the domed building that housed the Ben-Hassrath, his Tamassran bowed a greeting to the guard and left. Sten did not want to acknowledge how her dismissal stung. Not a word, not even a look at him. He did not expect warmth from many, but that was his Tama.

Inside the domed structure, the warmth of the jungle was cut off abruptly, as if stepping not into a building but another place, one that did not share the same close sun as Seheron. Narrow windows shed diffused light on the stone floor. A worker, a dwarf given qamek if his vacant gaze was any measure, polished the floor with mechanical thoroughness.

Sten followed the guard in silence. If he was corrupted, he needed to limit his interactions as much as possible. But his Tama said he should be executed. Why? Execution was a last resort after all else failed. A life was too precious a resource to waste, hence the use of qamek for those whose reeducation failed.

Sten did not protest when he entered the room with one chair. He sat, obediently, and waited while the restraints were fastened around his wrists, arms, thighs, calves, chest, and neck. The restraints pressed into his skin, tight, puffing out his flesh on either side of the thick leather. A drain lay in the middle of the room.

Rage flowed through him like grass fire. Familiar, it burned through his body, clearing away his thoughts. His Tama had taught them how to deal with their rages. Rage was natural, inevitable, but they had minds, thinking minds that elevated them above beasts. She had shown them pictures of dragons, beasts so perfect and beautiful the children gasped to see their image for the first time. Dragons are the soul sisters of the qunari: powerful, raw, unrestrained, and savage. The Qun raised the people to be above unthinking beasts. “The dragons may fly,” his Tama said, “but your minds are free.”

Rage is slavery. The Qun is freedom.

Sten could not move his head in the restraints, so he closed his eyes and focused on the words of the Qun, repeated litany after litany until the rage was his to control.

“We have the dragon inside us. You shall tame your dragon,” his Tama had said.

The rage is not an enemy. Rage is like the kabethari, people born in ignorance who await enlightenment. “Master yourselves, and you master the world.”

Time passed uncounted as Sten continued his litany of the Qun. He heard another enter the room, but he did not open his eyes or stop his repetition of the Qun.

“Soulless, those words are not for you.”

The words died on Sten’s lips. Soulless? That… no, that can’t be.

“You will not speak the Qun anymore. Tal-Vashoth.”

“Viddasala, I have not renounced the Qun.” Sten did not panic easily, but this felt like his heart was being carved out of his chest.

“You traveled with a witch who walked unbound. Who knows what dark sorcery she whispered to you.”

The memory of a thin, fragile-looking woman with black hair and ghost pale face pale flashed before his mind. Her magic was dangerous, but the woman he could break with his own hands. She hadn’t scared him, repulsed him with her arts and wild manner, but he knew the viper for what she was. Had her poison infected him? Even so, that would not make him Tal-Vashoth.

“Viddasala, I submit.” He did so gladly. “I would serve the Qun.” He did not add please though the word floated at the tip of his tongue.

The Viddasala crouched before Sten though Sten did not lift his eyes to see him. “Your Tamassran wishes you to be reeducated, for she loves all the children under her care, but there is nothing to reeducate. You are Soulless.”

Sten finally looked at the Viddasala. To his surprise, the Viddasala had a kind face. His gold eyes had wrinkles at the corners from smiling. The man’s horns were not large, but they curved elegantly up at the tips. Whatever Sten expected, it was not the gentle face of this man.

At the Viddasala’s gesture, though no people or windows were in the room, the single door opened. In walked humans, all blood-covered. Their simple clothing showed the dirt and sweat stains common to farmers. Adults and children walked in single file to stand before Sten. Some had broken bones, pieces of their bodies torn off, missing jaws, open wounds in their skulls where their brains lay visible.

“You are Soulless, man who once held the rank of sten. You have disgraced yourself and all Qunari to the kabethari. You have let your rage be uncontrolled. Have traveled willingly with a witch.”

The farmers stood before him with accusing, dead eyes.

Something wrong.

The body of a boy walked forward, the boy Soulless had held when his mind came back to on the shores of a foreign lake. The Viddasala unbound the arm of Soulless, and the boy placed a short, sharp knife in his hand.

“Soulless, end yourself. You have no place here.”

Soulless stared at the knife. They wanted him to end his own life. Suicide was the ultimate rejection of the Qun, an act that would irrevocably sunder his soul and his place in the Qun.

Hand shaking, he slid the blade along his wrist deep enough to feel the scrape along bone. The cut did not hurt. Blood spilled, steaming in the cold room. It flowed like a waterfall. The Viddasala left so as not to be touched by the impurity of a Soulless. The humans stayed, standing in a circle around him, watched impassively as his blood continued to flow.

The boy took the knife and slashed Soulless’ other wrist.

“Thank you,” Soulless said.

The boy crawled up in his lap and rested his head on Soulless’ shoulder. Soulless put his one free arm on the child’s shoulder.

The blood continued to flow, too fast for the drain to carry it all away. Slowly, the blood filled the room, covering the floor, inching up the sides. Soulless felt the blood, his blood, rise above his ankles, up his calves.

He tried to think of the Qun, but the words wouldn’t come to him anymore. Instead he studied the faces of the farmers he had killed. Careworn from labor, weather, and lives of struggle, they had faces darkened by sun and made old before their time. Even the children looked aged and so very sad.

The blood rose up his thighs and to his waist. In his rage, he tied his fate to these people. All would die without the wisdom of the Qun. Wasted lives.

“Your soul,” the boy said. He sat up and looked Soulless in the eyes. The bones of his neck stuck out in bumps against his skin.

“Yes?”

“It’s not dead.”

“I didn’t think so, but it’s not with me.”

“Asala is not cared for. It rusts.”

Soulless bowed his head, the restraints no longer there.

“It does the work of thieves and honorless men,” the boy continued.

His missing, abused soul ached like a lost limb.

“You should not have lost it.”

Soulless felt his sorrow for his missing soul, as if he was made of nothing but grief. “I know.”

“You will die like us.” The boy spoke truths touched by pity Soulless did not deserve.

“Yes,” Soulless said, and let the boy to lie against his chest.

The blood lapped up his neck, up his mouth, covered his nose, flowed over his eyes.

Soulless woke with a start. A tired, pale face regarded him from his tent entrance.

“Your turn for watch,” the witch said.

Soulle—Sten. I am Sten.

He grunted acknowledgment, and the witch trudged off to her area of the camp. Sten watched her, not knowing what to feel for a moment.

He sat up, donned the ridiculous scraps of armor that had been foraged for his use. Not much in this human-dominated place fit him. Sten stared at the two-handed sword he wielded. The weak rain that had pattered against his tent most of the night started to pour in a thin, cold sleet.

Qunari did not dream as the others, this he knew from the way they talked of dreams, yet the profound unnaturalness of this place had pulled him deep into the sleep visions. There was no wisdom to be found in dreams, however, he could not deny the portents he had witnessed. First to become Soulless, and then to lose himself in rage. Sten stared at the sword, and knew his fate was sealed.

Finally, he strapped on the unfamiliar sword and started his patrol around the camp. He wasn’t sure if he preferred the ministrations of the Viddasala or to still be here, stuck in an ugly country protecting weak and unworthy people on a hopeless quest.

~o~O~o~

“Nijel!” Raviathan shouted.

“Don’t tell me you’re finished with practice already.” When Nijel saw the Dalish hunter, propped up and sipping from Raviathan’s waterskin, he ran the rest of the way up the rise. “Deygan!”

“He isn’t critically wounded,” Raviathan said. “Exposure, claw wounds, and a concussion. From what I can tell, he’s been crawling with a sprained ankle.”

Bandages covered Deygan’s legs and stomach. Leliana and Alistair followed their Dalish guide to see what the commotion was about.

“No bite marks or heat to indicate infection,” Raviathan continued. “I have an elfroot poultice on his wounds, which should stop or slow down most common infections.”

Nijel clasped Raviathan’s shoulder in thanks. “What happened, Deygan?”

“Attacked,” he rasped. “Didn’t find Witherfang. Have you seen… the others?”

“No sign of them,” Nijel said.

“Which direction did you come from?” Raviathan asked.

Exhausted, Deygan worked to swallow the bit of bread Raviathan had given him. “East. Near Halla’s Run.”

“A waterfall,” Nijel said at Raviathan’s unspoken question. “About a mile and a half east by southeast.”

“Leliana, would you ask Morrigan to scout the area?”

She nodded and scampered back down the rise where the others continued eating their lunch. Raviathan sat back on his heels. “We need to get him back to the camp.”

That would delay them a fortnight at least. Unfortunate, but necessary.

“If you can help us to Angella’s Reach, a signal arrow would be enough to alert a patrol,” Nijel said. “From there, I can stay with him and see him safely back, if need be.”

Though it was the most expedient solution, Raviathan hated to give up their guide. Out of all of them, only Morrigan had experience in the wild, and as she often said, the Korcari Wilds were a far cry from the Brecillian Forest. Raviathan bit his lip and nodded ascent. “Well, if you can get a patrol, let them know where we found the ironbark. With the halla, they can probably drag it back to camp. Alistair? You and Sten will probably need to take turns carrying him. Let’s get started.”

~o~O~o~

With Nijel gone, the forest seemed a much more eerie place. The nightmares they had all been experiencing didn’t help with the paranoid feeling that they were being hunted. What had been a fascinating journey turned quickly into lost and foreboding.

A little more than a week’s worth of instruction improved Raviathan from completely incompetent to mostly incompetent. Raviathan couldn’t see the tracks that had been as clear as a road to Nijel. It all looked like dirt and forest to Raviathan. He could make a shelter that would stand a clear night, knew how to store food so a bear wouldn’t be tempted to forage through their campsite, and had some tips for water safety. Raviathan couldn’t identify most of the animals except for the most common, couldn’t see signs of danger, or identify the weather patterns any better than when he had lived in the city.

The maps Nijel had left remained a mystery to Raviathan. He sat away from the others at night trying to puzzle out how to read them. Some of the place names were in The King’s Tongue, but other places had Dalish names. Though beautiful, they mystified Raviathan with their odd marks. Then there was the geography. Was the black line a river or a mountain ridge? How could you tell where you stood? Or which direction to go? Or how to hold the damn thing? Whether he held the leather with the star at the top or bottom didn’t seem to make a difference. He would have asked Nijel to explain it, but their guide had been preoccupied with the injured scout. Morrigan had no more luck given that maps were unnecessary to her travels around the Wilds.

The one useful skill Raviathan had, he used in abundance. Not only had Raviathan’s fire making skills impressed Nijel, many of the herbs in the forest were familiar ones. Rarely had his healer’s kit been so well stocked. When he gave up trying to make heads or tails of the maps, he set to work preparing the herbs he had gathered throughout the day.

Raviathan pressed a sprig of Andraste’s Grace into his journal. He remember with fondness picking the flowers and adding it to Nesiara’s braids. That night she placed the little flowers in their pillow case so the sweet fragrance would touch their dreams. Would she be in Dragon’s Peak with the other match her parents had been considering or would she be back with them in Highever? Was she happy?

He put the book away with a small sigh. Maker light her path.

With Venger trotting at his side, Raviathan hurried to catch up to the others. He laid his fingers on top of the dog’s head in silent thanks for the animal’s company. Out of all of his companions, the only one Raviathan felt friendship with was the dog. Morrigan… he wasn’t sure he would call her friend yet, but of his companions who could speak, she was the closest.

His fingers felt Venger’s growl first, the vibrations alerting him to danger. Raviathan looked about for trouble, his wariness alerting the rest. He took stock of the land about them, of escape routes or defensible positions. A steep rise to their left meant they couldn’t be attacked by that position, but little else favored them.

“What is it?” Leliana asked.

“Venger senses something.”

The dog’s back fur stood on end, his growl becoming louder.

Sten saw them first. Red eyes glared out from the thick vegetation. Raviathan’s blades were in his hands without him consciously thinking to do so. The rest followed his lead, their backs against the rise. Raviathan counted one, two, three pairs of eyes, but then they would shift to different positions, sometimes appearing as twice that number, before disappearing again.

“Zathrian sent you.” That voice, deep and snarled, sounded more like Venger’s growls than a human. “We will do to you as we have done with the others who came to hunt us.”

The hair on Raviathan’s arms stood on end. “You’ve attacked the Dalish,” Raviathan called back.

These must be the werewolves, but Raviathan hadn’t expected them to talk. From what Zathrian said, they were mindless beasts. Raviathan didn’t think talking would get them out of a fight, but maybe something could be gleaned of the mysterious Witherfang. “Should they not protect themselves?”

One approached. His strange form caused the air to catch in Raviathan’s throat. Raviathan had a surreal moment as he watched the long, lean figure coated in brown fur. All his life had been spent in an alienage. The strangest creatures to be found lay caged in the Market District. Of those, jungle cats or odd birds were the most exotic, perhaps the occasional dancing bear.

Hearing tales of darkspawn or werewolves did not prepare person to see one in real life. Nothing, no story, could ever brace Raviathan for his first encounter with a darkspawn, and the same held true for this creature. No story conveyed the size of them, almost as large as a horse with thick muscles on an otherwise near emaciated frame. Raviathan never heard about the cunning in a bestial face, how odd that intelligence appeared in a wolf’s features. The earthy scent, the long talons, the teeth, all features Raviathan had only encountered in bears, but bears didn’t move with that grace. The werewolf was horrifying, but also majestic in his power.

“They? You are not one of the Dalish..”

“How could you tell,” Alistair muttered. Leliana nudged him with her elbow.

“No, we aren’t,” Raviathan said.

The werewolf pondered him, his nose in the air, scenting. The aggressive ruff of his neck matched Venger’s own posture. “I am Swiftrunner, leader of my pack. The Dalish sent you then. We have watched your path since you entered our territory.”

Maker, that was chilling. They had felt eyes on them, some strange intuition that they were not alone, but none had seen any scouts. They could have been attacked any time and never seen it coming. “Zathrian wishes to end the curse.”

Before Raviathan finished his statement, the werewolf began to growl. “You know nothing.”

Already this quest was becoming more complicated than the one Zathrian sent them on, facts that made Raviathan’s brain start turning. “I know what the Dalish told me, but you speak as if you know Zathrian.”

The werewolf bared his teeth in a snarl, a disturbing sight that made Raviathan think of how those teeth would feel sunk into his flesh. Holding his ground became harder, and he hoped werewolves didn’t smell fear as dogs did. With an effort of will honed through long hours of training, Raviathan kept his eyes level with the werewolf’s glare.

“I have not met him,” Swiftrunner growled. “He would not survive if I had.”

Despite the werewolves’ skill in sneaking around, that claim struck Raviathan as arrogant posturing. The werewolves would have already attacked the Dalish site if they knew they would be victorious. Instead the werewolves took out scouts, just like wolves, seeking out the easy kill.

“You suffer under the curse, as do the Dalish. Don’t you want it to end?”

The chilling chorus of howling wolves sounded like it came from all directions, a sound that made Raviathan shiver as if cold water trickled down his spine. “Zathrian seeks vengeance, and you are his tool.”

The werewolves may not be unthinking, but they had a warped sense of justice. Raviathan had seen the fallen hunters for himself, saw the injured trembling in mind killing pain as the curse infected them. “I’m not here to attack you. We seek Witherfang.”

“You threaten the great wolf? I will tear you apart myself!”

Raviathan raised his blades to a defensive stance, but that’s as far as he got. With a leap faster than his eyes could track, Swiftrunner had him knocked to the ground. The sharp pain of impact mixed with the blur of forest. Raviathan saw a flash of teeth, could see the pink and black gums of Swiftrunner’s mouth as it bore down on him. Stunned, Raviathan grappled with the werewolf. In that instant, Raviathan knew he was no match for the werewolf’s size or muscles.

Venger’s powerful body interceded. The mabari was in a frenzy as he attacked the werewolf. Raviathan turned his head to the side, squinting, to protect his eyes as he and Venger fought the werewolf. Venger’s jaws clamped on Swiftrunner’s neck, the dog wrenching his whole body back and forth in a death shake meant to break his prey’s neck.

As quickly as the attack started, Swiftrunner was back on his haunches ten paces away. Venger stood guard over Raviathan, ready to attack in an instant. Blood seeped down Swiftrunner’s neck into the thick fur at his chest. “No, brothers and sisters! We do not need to risk injury. The forest will protect us.”

With that, Swiftrunner leaped back into the underbrush. A multitude of wolven eyes measured the small party, the force of the pack made clear, before they turned away. In an instant, the pack disappeared after Swiftrunner as if they had never been there. The rest of Raviathan’s party had their weapons out and ready, their backs against the rise, and they seemed just as unnerved as Raviathan felt.

Maker, they were fast! Raviathan had a sinking sensation in his stomach. The werewolves could have done serious damage to them. Maker’s mercy that they had decided to retreat, but Raviathan’s party was seriously outclassed. The task of finding one wolf in a forest, already daunting, now seemed near impossible.

Raviathan petted Venger, the dog giving a growling chuff in response, his eyes still trained on the invisible path the werewolves had taken.

When Raviathan’s hand came away wet, he took a closer look at the mabari. Swiftrunner’s talons had raked along the dog’s flank. At the sight of muscle and rib bone, Raviathan’s heart clenched. “Hey,” he said in a low tone to calm the dog. “They’re gone. Come here. Let’s get you fixed up.”

Raviathan caught Morrigan’s eye then flicked his away in silent communication to get rid of the others. She gave him a tiny nod. Raviathan didn’t hear what she said, his focus completely on Venger. He cleaned out the dog’s wounds as carefully as he could, put on an elfroot poultice with a numbing agent made of nettles, and sewed up the deep lacerations. Through the treatment, Venger lay on his side, not moving save for deep breaths. Every once in a while he emitted a whine, and Raviathan cooed at him continually.

When Raviathan was sure the others were not in sight, he let his healing magic flow into the dog. “There you go, bud. In a few days, you won’t even have a scar.”

Venger’s jaw opened in a happy, doggy grin. Raviathan kissed the top of the dog’s head, a hand scratching Venger’s thick neck. “Thank you.”

He found the others boiling water to clean it before adding it to their waterskins.

“He’s alright then?” Alistair asked, indicating Venger.

“He will be.” Raviathan sat on a stone near the brook. Intelligent werewolves. Maker help them. “Morrigan, would you be able to track them? Find out where they live?”

She pondered the question. “The stories of this forest’s strangeness are not exaggerated. The times I have flown, the landscape seems to shift. I would not recommend splitting up.”

“Shift?” The news worried the others as well as if their wide eyes and uncomfortable shuffling was any judge.

“There are unnatural clouds and fog that I will not fly through. Sometimes it seems the trees have moved or the flight back takes longer than it should.”

“Well. That’s not ominous or anything,” Alistair said. “There wouldn’t happen to be any giants in this area, would there?”

“I have not heard of them in Ferelden,” Leliana said. “Mostly they roam southern Orlais.”

“Oh. That’s a relief.”

Alistair’s smile barely touched his lips when Leliana continued. “Dryads are common here, so I’ve heard.”

“Oh.”

“How do you know this, Leliana?” Raviathan asked.

“Orlesian hunts are all the fashion, especially for exotic game. It’s rare that an Orlesian noble gets sanction to hunt in Ferelden, not that there’s much call for them to visit.”

Raviathan had the strange feeling he was living in a fable. Werewolves, dryads, and giants?

“This doesn’t seem real,” Alistair said in an unsettling mirror to Raviathan’s own thoughts. “If an old crone asks me three questions, I’m out.”

Raviathan bit his lips not to laugh. The laugh would have been more due to stress, and once started, would be difficult to stop. Maker, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His life no longer seemed real. “You already met Flemeth.”

“Oh, Maker. I wish you hadn’t said that. I’m going to end up a frog. I know it.”

“Cheer up, Alistair,” Leliana said. “We will endeavor to find a princess for you if you turn green and wet.”

“The kiss of a fair, young princess?” Morrigan narrowed her eyes at Alistair. “As rare as princesses are, tis more likely than finding true love for him.”

At Alistair’s moue, Leliana patted his shoulder. “I’m sure you would make a most dashing frog and will charm all the lady frogs with your ribbits.”

~o~O~o~

“Sten, do you know how to read a map?” As much as he hated to see the qunari’s disdain, Raviathan wasn’t going to endanger them because of his own ignorance. “Maybe you and Leliana can figure out a proper direction to take based on what we know of the werewolves.”

In contrast to the frosty morning air, Raviathan’s face warmed as he handed over the map case, but he kept his expression neutral. Sten made a noise deep in his throat but displayed no other outward sign of his feelings on the matter.

Murmuring to each other, Leliana and Sten bowed their heads over the maps, her finger occasionally trailing an invisible path over the leather.

So be it. Raviathan helped pack up their campsite while the two discussed. By the time they were ready to move on, the two had come to some sort of agreement.

“According to the map, we should start making our way along the west trail and head south in five miles.”

With a nod, they started off. Raviathan felt an ease of the burdens that wore on him. After all the insecurities he had been carrying, we wouldn’t be responsible for this part. While he hated that Alistair wouldn’t make a decision on his own, he could understand that leadership could be a tremendous burden. Even if they became lost, it wouldn’t be his fault.

They marched through the forest with Leliana and Sten at the lead. For the first time since Nijel left, Raviathan could go back to appreciating the forest. He needed these times of reflection with a desperation he hadn’t recognized admidst the chaos his life had become. He let go of his worries about the Dalish and darkspawn and templars. Instead he focused on the gentle sway of trees and elegant curve of ferns. At times he picked out the birds and flora he recognized. At others, he let his mind go blank and experienced the scents and sounds of the woods, so alien to his life behind city walls.

A gasp brought his attention back to the present. Leliana and Sten had stopped at a clearing in the path. Raviathan could make no sense of the pieces he saw around their bodies or the thick trees on either side before they opened up. Alistair muttered, “Maker’s breath.”

Raviathan hurried to see what the fuss was about. The clearing was a perfect circle of reddish clay ground, slick with puddles from the night’s rain. Inside the clearing, thin trees grew, their trunks contorted in a way Raviathan had never seen any plant grow. Three inches from the ground, the tree trunks bent in a sharp angle to the left to form a wide half circle before straightening again. The bark of the trees looked like peeling paper, mottled rust red and dusky blue.

At the center of the clearing lay a pile of dark grey ash. A light mist hung over the ash in a wide disk that seemed to shift but never moved out of place. Was it a trick of the light? Raviathan wasn’t sure if he saw foot prints settle in the mud around the ash pit or if it was a reflection of the light through mist.

“I’m thinking this is probably a bad place,” Alistair said.

Leliana nodded agreement, her eyes fixed on the strange area.

“I would not linger here overlong,” Morrigan said.

The trees alone were creepy enough, but the sinister sense of wrong kept them from entering. Instead of continuing through to pick up the path, they backtracked to a narrow game trail that headed south. Raviathan couldn’t shake the haunted sense that lingered in his awareness. They were all on edge after that.

In retrospect, Raviathan chided himself for letting his guard down. The werewolves had surprised them less than a day ago. He had no business relaxing in this haunted place.

The trail led down a switchback to a ravine where a narrow stream wound in the gully. Layers of mist grew as they descended, like ribbons of fog that hovered, silent and still. Unnerved by the precipitous trail, Raviathan kept close to the cliff side where the path was most firm. Few trees grew on the steep cliff, and those that did had exposed roots where the dusty earth had eroded away. The roots made Raviathan think of spider legs.

Relieved once they were at the base, Raviathan finally drew in a full breath. They stepped carefully on the round river stones, another new experience for Raviathan. After almost falling three times, he learned to test a new stone before putting his weight on it. Breaking an ankle would be too easy.

Though no trees hung overhead to canvas the sky, the ravine seemed darker than the forest. No wildlife scurried about or twittered. With only the quiet stream curling sluggishly around the rocks, the ravine felt like a dead place.

“Are we going the right way?” Alistair asked.

Leliana glanced at the map. “There should be a path up ahead. Another half mile.”

They all looked dubiously up the cliff. Considering Raviathan had rarely stepped out of the alienage during his life, these past few months were a major change on the use of his muscles. His thighs ached every night he went to bed, a nice mirror to his ego.

He heard it first, a sound that raised the hair on his arms, a sucking, wet sludge with faint cracks and pops. “What is that?”

“What’s what?” Alistair asked.

The ravine echoed sound oddly, so Raviathan couldn’t pick which direction the sound came from. “That sound,” he trailed off, cocking his head in different directions to try and find its source.

“I hear it too,” Leliana said. A few mystifying seconds later, Leliana pointed. “There.” At the far end of the canyon, a low, dark mass spread across the ravine floor.

“A flash flood!” Morrigan called out then took to wing. Her black form flapped through the party as she sped back the way they came.

The river that rushed at them, black with mud, measured to Raviathan’s knee. Twigs and sticks undulated like exposed worms writhing in loose earth. A quick glance at the ravine’s sides showed no escape.

Moving as fast as he could, Raviathan hopped from rock to rock to get back to the path. He fell more than once, bruising a knee and the palm of his hand through his armor. From the sound of grinding stone, the others followed closely behind. That strange sucking sound grew.

When Raviathan fell again, he took a second to glance back over his shoulder. The river had gained yards on them, and while the initial wave reached his knee, the flood behind measured to his upper thigh. Though they had a head start, running on the river rocks the mile back to the path slowed them considerably. The river spiked like a porcupine with all the debris churning in the thick current. Sticks and branches as thick as Raviathan’s arm piled high before being sucked back into the ground-eating slurry.

Ahead, Venger watched him, whining, survival warring with fear for his master. Raviathan kept his hopping pace, arms out for balance. He motioned for the dog to keep going, and Venger sped along the gully.

As Raviathan ran, he kept looking for ways up the ravine sides, a low tree, a break in the rock surface he could climb, anything to keep from being swept up in the flood. The sucking mud sound grew, a loud crack reminding him the force of the river was enough to break apart the branches caught up in it, branches stronger than his leg bones.

Raviathan’s heart leapt when he spied the switchback trail. The trail’s base exited furthest away so the bottom path went against the river. Stones clacked behind him as they were swept up in the current, the sound hounding him with the emotionless but devastating disregard nature had for all living things. Venger, already up on the first turn of the trail, howled. Raviathan had to keep running to the base but saw Leliana’s legs pumping up the path now at his shoulder, Sten close behind.

At the first painful snap of stick against this ankle, Raviathan leapt up the path using his momentum to roll away from the current. He staggered to his feet, breath coming in tight lung-filled gasps. The river rose quickly after the initial tide. Raviathan stared at the rising flood in amazement. Whole tree trunks flowed along the slurry as fast as he could run. Sticks tumbled along the current looking like bones. Pale brown foam road the top of the waves.

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair said, just ahead of him on the path.

Raviathan nodded, mute in awe for a moment. A boulder the size of Venger tumbled in the swift current.

“Come on. Let’s get going.”

Alistair started up the path, his attention focused on the flood. Raviathan winced as he put weight on the ankle hit by debris. At a quick check with his magic, he could feel the bruise on his bone. He let his magic flow in a slow trickle in order to control the process as he worked to keep the swelling at bay and repair damaged tissue.

A crack appeared in the path, the only warning Raviathan had before half the trail separated. Alistair looked back in shock, but Raviathan pushed him to move. “Run!”

They scrambled up the steep trail, Raviathan’s injury forgotten. Sections of the path kept falling away in large chunks, leaving raw, loose earth in their wake. A chunk slid out under Raviathan’s foot, and he fell, sprawling to distribute his weight on the traitorous soil. He scrambled on all fours before getting enough space to run on two feet.

Another segment fell, tipping Raviathan towards the ravine. Nothing to grab hold of on the hill side of the path, so Raviathan made a desperate grab for the tree at the juncture of the switchback. Fingers catching roots, Raviathan swung over the now missing path. The flood slurry roiled like boiling water below him. Tree roots cracked, but he was able to pull himself up for a better grip.

Where the path had been lay only a scar of crumbled earth.

Pops and wooden groans warned Raviathan. Between the loose soil and his weight, the tree he held onto started to dip down. The sharp smell of broken wood overrode the heavy odor of mud slurry.

Oh, Maker, no. Just hold on a little bit longer, tree.

Raviathan scrambled up the wet slickened roots as fast as he could. He grasped at the trunk but found no purchase on the wet bark. The tree dropped further when more roots snapped. Raviathan lost a hand hold when the tree shuddered, the roots vibrating under his grip. He looked down as his body swayed over the river. The river churned and roiled, the roar deafening.

In strength born out of desperation, Raviathan swung his legs up. He latched a heel around the trunk. His hands ached, but he levered himself up, inch by inch, to straddle the trunk.

The lower half of the path was completely shorn away. Raviathan stretched his fingers and took stock of his current situation. Below raged the unforgiving current. The half-fallen tree that was his uncertain sanctuary vibrated with the power of the current, bits of earth crumbling away near the tree’s exposed roots. Near the shorn cliff side his companions returned his gaze with equal expressions of horror. Alistair tried to edge to the lip of the path, but Raviathan cried out, “No!” The earth would only crumble under his weight.

A raven carrying a rope hovered above him long enough for him to grasp the life line. He tied the rope around his waist then slowly, carefully stood on the trunk. One step at a time, he walked along the rough bark. A loud crack, and Raviathan fell, spinning. He slammed against the cliff side and watched in horror as the tree splashed into the flood. The tree bobbed and turned, then flowed down with the river at a frightening speed.

Loose earth rained down as he was hauled up. He closed his eyes as sharp particles fell into them and prayed the rope would hold. Foot by jolting foot, he rose in darkness. Hands gripped his arms and heaved him the rest of the way. He crawled away from the cliff’s edge, blinking the dirt from his eyes. He was going to need a few minutes to recover from that. Indeed, hugging solid ground for a few minutes felt like a good idea.

Venger lay next to him, for which Raviathan was grateful.

“The werewolves said the forest would protect them.” Leliana had her arms folded over her stomach as if she would be sick. “Do you think that’s what happened?”

“Hard to say,” said Morrigan. “With the rain last night, could be a natural phenomenon. It need not be magic.”

Despite her words, Morrigan gave Raviathan a brief glance that told him she believed more than natural forces had been at work.

“Best be on our guard for, well, anything,” Alistair said.

“Is…” Raviathan had to clear his shaking voice. “Is there a way around this ravine?”

Leliana and Sten studied the maps for a few minutes while Raviathan sat up and sipped from his waterskin. He kept an arm around Venger, needing to feel the dog’s solid mass.

“We can follow the ravine’s edge to the east, I think,” Leliana said. “It will add most of a day’s journey.”

Raviathan stood, the pain in his ankle a half-forgotten ache further dulled by adrenaline. “Let’s go.”

And hope the forest doesn’t try to kill us.


	44. Eyes of Wolves - From All Sides

Ah, to be free again.

She soared through thick boughs of pine, the scent fresh and sharp. Her black wings beat, twisting with her tail to curve her trajectory in an acrobatic dance. Alighting on a high branch, she took a moment to smell the air. Her beak kept her from smiling, but the smile existed nonetheless.

Lothering stretched her tolerance for humans to the breaking point. How she wanted to snap at them, scare them with a bit of spell work until they ran. Their useless lives filled with petty fights and squabbles over a pig or who curried whose favor. These possessive, small-minded peasants could not see how trivial their lives were, no better than ants scurrying over a destroyed hill.

The Chasind knew how to live with the wilds. These northerners though, with their farms and domesticated beasts, spread like a toxin, chewing up old forests and fields, changing the course of rivers or breaking the mountains to build stone houses. Though not as poisonous as the darkspawn, they carried their own form of destruction.

Relief to be in the wilds again scoured her soul clean. She would need to build up her tolerance to humans, but for now, the wilds reminded her of the few times she had been happy.

A memory came unbidden, the moment when she realized she would never have the freedom of simple pleasures again. She had been flying then, too.

Years ago she flew, an escape from her mother, the bitter, dried up tyrant. Flemeth's last words still stung, following through the miles as Morrigan sought escape. 'Twas a simple mistake. Morrigan's control over the Chasind boy was nearly perfect. The boy's attention drifted, his head dropping before popping back up, only to slide down again as the sleep spell took hold, stealing away his energy. What caused the boy to wake and scream, alerting the rest of the camp, Morrigan could not say.

Now wary of the witches in their presence, Morrigan and Flemeth had little choice but to take to the air. No need to create enmity and force the Chasind into a hopeless battle because the savages felt they were in danger. A missing warrior here, a bit of mischief there, the Chasind could tolerate, but there had been too much of that of late. Best let emotions settle before practicing magic again.

Once the two landed back at the hut, Flemeth's hand struck out of nowhere. Morrigan staggered back from the force, half from shock as from the blow.

"But Mother…"

"Quiet, Girl! You should have had him by now. How can you still be so clumsy?"

The words continued, each as stinging as the slap. One after another rained down, making Morrigan feel small and incompetent, red with humiliation and frustrated rage. She kept her head down knowing a defiant eye would make the punishment worse. The dirty boy had pimples, a weak chin, and nose that belonged on a buzzard. Of all the people her mother could have chosen to take for practice, why that one? Morrigan crossed her arms, grateful her mother's chosen target had failed. Just the idea of having to charm the boy's body into readiness, of having to take that one inside her, filled her with disgust.

Another slap. The biting sting turned into a red ache. Startled, Morrigan met her mother's eyes.

"Idiot child. Can you not even pay attention? Is all your focus gone? At this rate we'll have to go back to the rudimentary exercises."

All the carefully built confidence Morrigan had shredded under Flemeth. She could never be herself, free. Always, her mother stole away the years until Morrigan felt like a girl still ignorant of magic's touch. "It was just a mistake, Mother."

A derisive snort met the comment. "Mistakes will kill you, child." The tirade may be over, but not her mother's anger. It simmered in her contempt, turned cold and calculating. Two fingers grasped Morrigan's chin, as bony and strong as a vulture's claw. "You didn't like the boy. Is that it?"

Shame flooded Morrigan's insides with a queer heat. She didn't want to talk of such intimacies with her mother.

"Don't bother lying. I already know the answer." Flemeth released her with a roughness that left an ache in Morrigan's jaw. "Morrigan. The day will come when all choices come down to a single moment, and if you cannot act, so much will be lost. In those singular moments, you will hold the fate of gods, the fate of history. In a pinprick of time, all our futures, all our fates, come together and that choice will ripple through the ages that have yet to come. Child, weakness will destroy far more than you."

Lips pursed, Flemeth stared at her.

Why did her mother always talk in riddles so? Morrigan kept back the tears that stung her eyes. What was she supposed to say to that proclamation?

"Go, child. Go to your foolish games and fantasies. With the time we've lost, what's a few more days?" With that, Flemeth turned her back and disappeared into her hut.

Morrigan turned into a raven, flew hard and fast as if space could silence her mother's words. When Morrigan wanted to play in the trees, a game of speed and agility, a race to escape imaginary templars or darkspawn, Flemeth's words haunted her. Foolish games. Her mother stole the joy from her games as effectively as shattering a mirror.

Of all the things the old witch could have said, mocking her treasured moments of freedom sliced her at the core. The words invaded her refuge, stole the lightness from her heart, and in its place weighed her down with a mountain of responsibility. Flemeth didn't need to clip her wings. The crone's methods chained her daughter more effectively than any cage.

Still, Morrigan beat her wings. A mile, then a second, she flew into the growing dusk. At first she hunted the insects that came out in the gloom, twisting to catch one after another. Necessity forced her into the acrobatic tumbles. Then an extra flap turned her flight into a roll. A small, secret smile opened her heart. She challenged herself, flapping hard to fly over a thick bough without losing speed. A dive, and she snapped a fluttering moth out of air as the wind sluiced by.

Not the same, but she could feel the memory of what was lost, could almost believe in her own child's magic again, a magic of innocence.

Now, hundreds of miles north of the swamp, Morrigan flew through unfamiliar trees. New scents erased old memories. Fresh breezes of pine, musky redwoods, pollen-heavy oaks, so strange and new, they cleared away the heavy odor of bog that clung to her clothes and skin. Away from the witch. The weight inside her felt distant in these moments. The heavy stone always pulling her down lay far away, almost gone from consciousness.

A cold draft from the south ruffled her feathers, pushing her towards a thicket. She spun in the air, delight breathing new life after the years of study and recriminations. With a few beats of her wings, she turned with the wind, diving to use a cold draft's momentum and take her deeper into the forest.

Flemeth would not be happy to hear how Morrigan kept picking at the templar. With only two Wardens left, the smart course of action would to befriend both. What if the elf should fall, her mother would warn. Oh how delighted the crone would be to hear how her daughter gleefully burnt her bridges.

Well then. The elf will have to live.

Of all the people she had to deal with, the elf was the least taxing. Still, his inability to learn a form and constant questions made his presence more a pest than peace. At least he knew when to be silent. That red-headed human never knew when to shut her mouth. Foolish girl. She and the templar made good company together, their noise and mindless faith blinded them to so much more.

Morrigan let out a squawk of panic. Her wings beat wildly as she slammed into the ancient wall. Claws scrambled for purchase on climbing vines, the same vines that hampered her wings. She dropped, tail over head, as she tried to right herself. Her chest ached from the blow. A fall at this height would shatter her fragile bones.

One wing didn't feel right, but it was enough as she leveled. A rough croak erupted from her throat when another wall loomed up in her vision. An arch overhead forced her lower. Arches like giant fingers kept her from open sky. Damnation!

Chest tight and wing sore, Morrigan landed on the stone floor. No creeping vines covered these human-cut stones. Morrigan opened her beak as she sucked in air. Each deep breath caused a sharp pain in her chest. Where did this place come from? The air didn't smell of forest anymore. Humans, dogs, manure, metal, hay, and a myriad of other scents assaulted her.

Footsteps. The clink of armor. Metal striking stone.

What is this place?

A dog's snarl caught her attention. The sound echoed off stone, made the threat sound like it came from many directions. The odd shape of walls and echos also distorted distance. Never before had Morrigan been in a place like this. What few buildings remained in the swamps had long ago lost their battle with the elements. Only the ancient fortress at Ostagar stood against the endless barrage of wind and snow, and that relic looked nothing like this.

The scrape of claws on stone joined the growl. From which direction, Morrigan could not guess, but the sounds grew louder.

Morrigan lowered, ready to leap into the air. She braced against the pain she knew would stab in her chest.

Pain flared in her back. Needles, thin and long as swords, drove into her. Morrigan screamed and flailed as more of the needle sharp pins closed around her throat with a crushing pain. Panic overwhelmed pain, making her struggle even as her thrashing caused the needles to rip further into her flesh. Morrigan screamed and twisted, saw the bright yellow-green eye of a grey cat.

The smell of blood. Her blood.

Morrigan screamed, flailed, tried to peck at the cat, felt movement under one claw and tried to scratch at it. The cat's grip loosened enough that Morrigan shifted, got a wing in between her body and the cat. The needle sharp claws scraped down Morrigan's skin, leaving deep gouges. Her powerful wing beat against the cat. Each movement caused the needles to rip her more.

Morrigan jumped, screamed when the needles clamped in deeper. She jumped again, beat her wings, screeched when the cat latched onto her tail feathers. Pain shot through her body. The cat had her tail feathers clasped too firmly to shake. Pain screamed through her body like she was pulling out her own fingernails to escape.

Blood splattered the stone as Morrigan rose. The cat yowled in frustration, an ugly sound that twisted Morrigan's stomach. The yellow-green eyes watched, angry, then the cat leaped up to grab her. So fast! Panic blinded her for a second, her wings beating frantically, legs pulled tight. Morrigan felt the passage of air from the cat's outstretched paw.

"She almost got him!" A child's laugh filled the hall.

Morrigan flew to the roof, circled, unsure of where to go. Window, need a window. Where were the vines that lead back out? Where was her forest?

A stone struck her side, a rib cracking from the blow. Morrigan spied the sling in the child's hand. The boy fished out another stone from his pocket as she watched.

Have to get out! There must be some way out. Morrigan flew down the corridor, down another hall. Closed doors, more closed doors, no windows. She couldn't keep flying. Every breath, every flap of wings brought new agony. There! A chandelier. Something to land on far away from the cat.

Guards came to stand below her. They laughed, joked, praised the boy for his shot. One took out a sword, started poking up at her. Morrigan squawked, tried to move away from the knight's prodding sword. No, not guards! Templars!

No windows. No open doors. She couldn't get enough air into her lungs. Transform, and they would know her as a witch instead of some confused bird. Risk another flight?

The sword came up again, slicing deep into her leg.

Where to go? Trapped.

Trapped, trapped, trapped!

Morrigan's eyes opened with a start. She sat up in bed, sweating, breathing as if she would never be able to get enough air.

Disoriented, she looked about. Forest. Tents. The campfire down to embers.

Trembling, she drew her knees up, rested her head on her hands. She wanted to be angry at the world, at the strange places she had been forced out to. Hadn't she told Flemeth she wasn't ready?

A few deep breaths calmed her. Think, Morrigan. Dreams are symbols, some inspired by demons if the person was weak. Morrigan's jaw clenched. She was not weak. In this forest the Veil thinned and fluctuated, unbalanced by centuries of conflict. Blood soaked into the earth, drunk up by the trees.

Though the effects of the dream clung to her, the trembling of her fingers had stopped. She stood, half annoyed to be disturbed by Fade shadows, half fearing their meaning.

The darkness of the sky marked the nearing dawn. Deciding to fight the dream's hold, Morrigan took to her raven form. Flight at this time had its difficulties. Her raven's eyes saw well enough, better than her vision in her true form, but ravens did not fly at night as a rule.

Memories of the cat's needle-like claws haunted her. She could feel them still, the shadow of pain, the sound of her slender bones breaking.

Cursed dreams will not steal this freedom from me!

She flew, beat her wings in defiance, in defiance of the Fade, in old childhood memories, in a mother who was anything but motherly.

She circled over the clearing. The Chantry apologists slept in their tents, her avian vision picking out the heat of their bodies. Sten lay in his bedroll, curled up by the fire, the dog soaking up heat on the other side. The elf must be on duty then, his tent remaining cold. She let the small heat of the fire carry her up. Rising higher, she beat her wings, circling around the camp.

Only the last few stars remained when she spied him. Curious, she alighted on a branch to watch. The elf crouched near a tree, hidden by ferns, his body folded over so she could see little.

She had seen this scene a few times with the Chasind boys who were just beginning their maturity, too young to win a woman's favor or too young to have the strength to claim one. Some boys hid the act as if it were a shameful thing. Others would stroke their release together, laughing afterwards. Men could be such odd creatures, either overly proud of their little protrusions or shamed by their natural instincts.

His breath hitched, the sigh of a word she could not understand the meaning of, something like a hiss. He stayed hunched over for a few moments as his body shook. After a time, he stood, adjusted his clothing with one hand, and headed to the stream to clean up.

Taking care to be silent, Morrigan landed on a rock not far behind the elf and transformed. "Neglecting your duties?"

Startled, the elf twisted back to see her. His eyes flashed blue-green in the low light. "Were… were you watching me?"

She had to keep from laughing at his outrage. "And what if we were attacked?"

He shook the water from his hands, his scowl deepening. "If darkspawn were near, I would have sensed them. Venger alerts us to the werewolves."

"The mutt sleeps."

"You don't know dogs, do you?"

"Why should I? Untamed animals of the wild are to my liking. Still, most neglectful of you."

"Morrigan, do not watch me. That's incredibly invasive." Shoulders hunched, he turned back to head to the camp. She didn't need the telltale heat sense of raven eyes to know his cheeks burned.

The laughter bubbled up despite her efforts. "Oh come now. We are not children or some blushing neophyte. Urges of the body are natural."

Eyes flashed at her, incredulous. "Natural does not mean open for display."

"You wish to find an animal form. You will learn they have no need for modesty."

"Would you strip down and rut in the middle of camp?"

"If it suited me."

He scoffed.

"Think I wouldn't?" Of course she wouldn't, but he proved far too much fun to poke at to let the topic go.

"You don't even liked to be touched. Despite your display," he motioned at her clothing, "you're not inviting. I can't imagine you enjoying anything that would make you sweat. Other than to shock."

"You believe me to be some blushing virgin?"

"Hardly." He glanced at her sideways, the flash of his eyes making them unreadable. "But you aren't as experienced as you would make yourself out to be."

"What does that mean?" She felt a scowl form despite wanting to remain cool on the topic. "What I have done would shock you, elf."

"No doubt."

He was just trying to get to her. "Shall I regale you with stories of what happened to lost Chasind men?"

The corner of his eyebrow raised at her as if she were a demanding child. "Morrigan."

The tone of patient condescension made her bridle. Two could play this superiority game. "And what do you know of sex?"

He sighed. "More than I care to."

That made her frown deepen and took all the defensiveness that had been building up. Though she knew little of such things, from what she gathered from the townsfolk at Lothering, most humans viewed elves as untrustworthy but pretty things, and odd combination of hostility, disregard, and lust. Elves were less than humans, to be used as a focus for their anger or wants by turns. Memories of Morrigan's dream flew back to her, the way her mother wanted her to be able to use men, and in doing so, was using her daughter.

Perhaps she wasn't alone in such feelings. "Has it been hard for you among humans?"

"I don't know an elf who hasn't suffered because of humans. Not a single one."

"What of the Dalish? Some of them have never even seen a human before we came."

Muscles in his jaw twitched, and she wondered at his temper. Of course she knew the Dalish suffered, that much was obvious, but she wanted to see his reasoning.

Eyes flashing now with anger, he glared, mouth open, ready to verbally flay her. My, my, but he could be a prickly one. In the end, he merely turned back towards the camp, quick footed and shoulders hunched. Morrigan wondered if she should apologize. Not that she felt regret, but why let bad blood linger between her and the only other person out here whose company she could tolerate?

"You aren't so ignorant." He had stopped, head bowed.

"No."

Rubbing his forehead, he let out a sigh.

In the growing grey light of dawn, she sat on a boulder to study him. If only she understood people more. Blast Mother. Did the old witch believe that teaching her daughter on a few bewitched Chasind boys would prepare her for all the complexities of these people? Nothing these people did made sense. Motivations hid behind layers of words, but none used the verbal traps or emotional stings her mother utilized. These people confounded her like puzzles she couldn't guess the shape of. "Am I so unappealing to you?"

Surprised, he turned towards her. "You're not unappealing."

"We could enjoy each other's company. I have no illusions, no need for attachments. This would be pleasure shared between us. Nothing more."

"It's never that easy, Morrigan."

"You have never indulged only for a night?"

"I have." He watched her, steady. "Is that all you've done though?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said lost Chasind men. How long did you stay with them?"

She frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Knowing a person's body then never seeing them again is far different than having to live with that person. It's easy to say 'no attachments' when you've never had to live in close proximity for an extended length of time. Unless you plan to leave us, I don't think you're prepared for the complexity such a relationship will inevitably entail."

"Why inevitably?"

He opened his mouth to reply when a series of harsh barks sounded from the camp. The two raced through the thick underbrush when Raviathan flew back. "What in the Maker's name?"

Ten paces away, the elf struggled out of the brush, scrambling to get his knife and dagger out. A thick mass of green flew towards Morrigan. She dived for the ground, feeling harsh scrapes tearing the skin off her back. Memories of cat claws shredding her came slamming back, too much like her dream.

"The trees," she cried. Her mother had been able to command the trees around their hut, but she never had learned the trick of it. Damnation! Her mother guarded her secrets too carefully.

A groan, deep and echoing, the pop and snap of wood, the sharp smell of cedar, and the tree cracked its way out of the ground. Naked, gnarled roots grasped at top soil, and the great tree swayed high above.

A freezing spell left Morrigan's lips out of instinct born of panic. She tried to twist away, move out of the tree's range, but the fresh wounds in her back made her cry out in pain.

The ice spell slowed the tree down but did little damage. This thing had been bred to survive Ferelden's winters. The tree twisted around, heavy branches swishing through the air.

A hand on her arm pulled her along stony earth, a flare of gravel sharp pain in her back, vibrations in the ground as the tree stomped where she had been only a second ago.

"Morrigan!" Her name helped pull her back from panic. Heat slid across her back, over her open wounds, soft as fire under her skin. Sharp pain turned to a low throb that was lost in the panic of attack—new skin covering her wounds. The elf hauled her to her feet, and they both raced to the camp.

Chaos reigned. Trees swayed in vertigo-inducing movements. Morrigan couldn't tell how many were possessed in the confusion of green upon green.

One tent lay half-crushed, its poles sticking out like broken bones. Unable to coordinate a defense, desperation marked their attacks. None had time to don armor, only to grasp weapons. Sten's sword did little more than nick the tree's dense bark. Leliana's arrows twanged into trees with no apparent damage. Venger and Alistair harassed one tree, but nothing slowed it down.

"Fire," Raviathan whispered. He turned to Morrigan, his eyes wide in fright. "We have to set them on fire."

Their course set, the two dashed to the dull remains of the campfire. Setting the last of the gathered firewood alight, Raviathan set off towards the tree attacking Alistair and Venger, while Morrigan went for Sten's tree. The tree's groans made Morrigan's skin shiver. Never before had she heard such a sound of torment and rage. The sound reverberated in her bones, spiked her fear so her hands shook and mind collapsed.

Fire.

She dashed forward, shaking, the burning log held before her like a talisman. Roots crawled up around her ankles, catching, tearing through the leather of her boots. Trapped! She thrust the burning log at the base of the tree. Her own screams sounded like they came from another person. She stared at the fire. Please! Catch, burn! The limbs swung through the air above her, hammers ready to pummel her.

Catch! Burn, damn you!

Behind her, Sten's sword kept the worst attacks at bay. He grunted with the effort, muscles straining against the tree's unnatural power.

Burn!

Finally, finally, the first flames flickered up the trunk. Roots twisted around her ankles, and she fell into the strange knot of them, but she held the log in place. Burn, you blasted thing!

Flames licked up the loose bark. More fire slipped beneath the base of the tree, the flames dancing through the gaps of the roots.

A howl tore from the tree, a sound that echoed through Morrigan as if she were made of crystal. The roots skittered about like the legs of a dying spider. The tree spun, knocking both Morrigan and Sten away. Only by luck did she escape without broken bones. The fire guttered, died to tiny licks of flame, and Morrigan felt her heart squeeze with the fear the fire would die.

Another twist of thick branches, and the howl intensified as fire raced up its trunk. The howl became a chorus as other trees burned brighter than the dawn. She heard pops, strange sizzles that ended in explosions. As she watched, the trunk grew a dark red. The fire had penetrated to the core, burning deep inside the tree.

"Come on!" Raviathan pulled at her arm. The others were dashing out of the camp clearing. Two other trees had that same dark glow. "The sap is going to make them explode!"

The party headed pell-mell into the forest with the moans of burning spirits at their backs. A resounding crack split the air, scattering birds and forest animals alike. Morrigan had never heard a sound like that before, as if the very air shattered into splinters. A rush of heat flowed around Morrigan as if she stepped into a bonfire. The scent of burning cedar thickened the air. Two more cracks sounded in quick succession as a red glow threw their shadows before them.

Would the forest begin to burn? One mortal peril following another?

The companions gathered around now that the immediate danger was gone. Morrigan's concern for the forest left as the red glow of fire dissipated into the cool grays of dawn. Only the fragrance of burning cedar and a faint haze marred the morning light. She cast Raviathan a suspicious look, which he returned with a knowing one.

If that was all his doing… but no. The range was too far by trice over, but it had to be him. And was he the reason the fires spread so quickly into the trees? Green wood never took fire like that, even the sap-filled cedars. How quickly the fire rooted inside the wood. Impressive did not begin to describe that kind of power.

But perhaps fire spells were easier to manipulate than ice. And it had been wood, after all. Or the elf had a few other tricks to make his power appear to be more than he had, like mother always did.

"Maker's breath," Alistair panted, bent with his hands braced on his thighs.

Leliana gazed back in the camp's direction. "We'll have to see what equipment can be salvaged."

Sten glared at the elf. "Where were you? Why did you not raise the alarm?"

Raviathan glared back, but he was too shaken to put any force into it. "Morrigan and I were patrolling. We were attacked just before Venger started barking."

"Hang on though." Alistair straightened up. "We were just attacked… by trees? How is that even possible?"

"I have seen trees of the like before," Morrigan said.

Raviathan opened his mouth to ask more when a crash of rotten wood and metal grabbed everyone's attention. Alistair lay sprawled over the remains of a hollowed log.

Could that templar do nothing right? "Now if only you could…"

Alistair spasmed with a yelp. His hips jerked up high, his body twisting violently.

"Alis…" Leliana began when her words were lost. Haunches lowered, Venger squealed in pain.

"Wasps!" Alistair gained his feet, three red welts spotting his face.

An angry swarm of yellow and black shot from the hollowed interior of the log.

"Run," Raviathan cried. "A river is east! Head for the river!"

With renewed panic, the party launched through the undergrowth. Blast that templar! Being chosen for the Wardens must have been a lie. Surely the templars kicked the fool out. Could nothing go right today?

Ahead, Leliana fell with a scream. The elf halted long enough to help her up before the two continued to run, the girl with a heavy limp.

Stingers pierced Morrigan's back and shoulders. More wasps attacked the others. Arms flailing uselessly at the pests, the rest continued to stumble over rocks and roots. Enough of this.

More sharp stings, like tiny burning daggers, embedded in her arms. She lost her concentration once, but pain and anger pushed through the second time. Black wings spread, and she was free.

~o~O~o~

A grunt of pain, and Sten jumped into the narrow river they had been racing for. Raviathan watched as Alistair and Venger leapt next. Leliana jumped with him, her hand on his shoulder to help her run on a sprained ankle. They were already in the air when they heard the shout of warning.

Too late.

Raviathan had a shocked second as he dropped into the quiet water below. Sten had a hand on a rocky outcropping, his body twisting wildly, before being pulled down as if by an invisible hand.

Dear Maker! Did some monster hide under the river's surface? Ice cold water enveloped him, and Raviathan understood in a terrifying moment of clarity. The placid water covered traitorous currents. A gulp of air, and Raviathan looked up to see rippling dawn sunlight penetrating through four feet of murky water. His body spun, up and down becoming the same in the confusion, as the river sucked him deeper.

Limbs struck him as Leliana flailed next to him. They would all drown in minutes. Cold numbed his hands, light and dark spinning in all directions.

A spell? He knew nothing that would help him. A barrier, but that would trap water in with him.

Rock! Raviathan had a second of warning. He curled up, arms over his face as a shield, when the current drove him into a rocky outcrop. The sharp edges raked down, blunted by his armor but painful nonetheless. The current took a sudden downward pull. A cave, large and ominous as a gaping dragon's mouth, loomed below.

Gripping the rock outcropping, Raviathan struggled to get purchase. Water pounded with incredible force, shoving him against the rock one second, pulling him down the next. The water felt like a living thing trying to rip him away from the only secure hold he had.

His lungs wouldn't last much longer. Trying to climb up the rock felt like crawling with a boulder chained to his legs, making his body feel ten times heavier. His muscles strained for each tiny inch. He was desperate for just a little relief, a few seconds rest to ease the burning of his limbs. Even as he would give anything for the tiniest rest, he knew that path led to his death.

I don't want to die!

Not for the first time, his brain screamed at him. Can't give up. You will die! Can't give up!

Three more feet of water above him? Sun wavered through the water, pale gold and muddy. Come on, come on, you can do it. Water pounded with the force of hammers, but soft as death. Lungs started to burn. Raviathan tried to stay close to the rock to minimize the force of chaotic currents pushing and pulling him.

Light touched his hand. Two more feet? Might as well be a hundred. A wall that he couldn't break. Don't want to die. More light. The pull less. Too far to the surface. Air. Need air.

His hand burned. The surface. So close. He wanted to gasp for air, he was so close.

I don't want to die!

Raviathan inhaled water and air, suffocating. He clung to the rock, choking in harsh, wracking spasms, but there was air. His face burned now free of the ice water. Bit by bit, he pulled himself up the rock. Once his torso made it over the ledge, he rolled to bring his legs out of the water.

As his coughs subsided enough for him to think, he submerged his hands back in the river. The force, just a few inches in, amazed him. Yet the surface mirrored the sky above, as placid as a stale lake. He coughed out more water, his throat scraped raw.

Once bits of dirt were swept away, Raviathan concentrated on healing the myriad of cuts his palms had sustained from the rock. His hands shook from shock and cold, a bone visible in the cut on his forefinger. Only the numbing ice cold water kept him from feeling the pain as more than a dull, distant ache. Capillaries and nerves knit, new tissue growing at the pace of his magical ability.

The river was nothing from a casual view. Barely six feet across, it appeared a gentle stream.

Lungs still struggling to clear the water he had inhaled, Raviathan stood on shaky legs. Had any of the others escaped this death trap?

The rocks surrounding the river led to an upward incline of bank covered by grey-green ground cover. "Venger?"

Raviathan's heart dropped at the thought of the dog's death. His chest clenched in relief when he heard a bark from further down. Venger didn't sound panicked or in pain. Feet and hands burning from the chill and shaking all over from cold, Raviathan carefully picked his way along the rough rocks.

At least the wasps had not lingered.

Experimentally, Raviathan knelt by the brook's edge and lowered his hand in. The suction was not his imagination. Just his hand, and Raviathan felt the pull of the river to drag him downward into its hidden depths. The surface remained a mirror dark, only a few ripples around his hand.

Past a rise, Raviathan spied the rest. Sten sat on a rock with his forearms on his thighs, head cradled in his hands. Gasping deep breaths, Alistair lay spread eagle on a flat section of rock. Leliana sat on one hip, her legs curled up to her side. Only Morrigan remained dry. The long tree branch she had used to help the others out lay next to her. Venger trotted up to Raviathan, his pug tail wagging so hard his whole body shook, and smelling like the wettest of dogs. Raviathan clutched the shaking beast to his chest.

Alistair gave a few aching coughs. "Well, we may have almost drowned, but at least there won't be any more wasps."

A disgusted sneer twisted Morrigan's face, but at a look from Raviathan, she kept her comment to herself.

"Jump into the river." Sten's glare was in full force. "We could have outrun the wasps. Instead, we nearly drowned."

"Right. Because I should know of every river in Ferelden and that the placid brooks are really the most dangerous." Raviathan wished his voice didn't sound so scratched. His words ended in more a gasp, triggering another coughing fit.

The giant glared at him with burning lavender eyes, which Raviathan ignored.

"Where's the map?" Alistair asked.

"Why?" Leliana held out the case.

"All nice and well there are Elvish names, but we don't know what they mean, so we should have names in the King's Tongue. We passed the 'Tiny Gully of Certain Death' and this will be 'The Pleasant Brook of Doom'. Probably means the same thing but with less apostrophes."

Raviathan frowned, though he couldn't disagree.

"There should be a bridge linking the trail north of here," Leliana said. "We can go back and get our equipment."

"Let's go." Raviathan turned without a backwards glance. Sten was turning into a problem, even worse than the templar. Alistair was at least harmless. Sten looked like he was ready for another murderous rampage. Why had Leliana wanted to free him so badly?

Ahead, blackberry bushes flanked the river. No berries this time of year, only thorns. Raviathan pondered jumping across the river, the space only about four feet, but that seemed like tempting fate.

"This way is probably best." Leliana tried to sound positive, her way of defusing the tensions in the party, but she sounded falsely cheery to Raviathan's ears. Maker, at least she was trying.

The party picked its way along the rise covered with more of those grey-green vines. They had to grasp at the vines, crawling on all fours to get over some of the trickier areas. Raviathan nibbled his lip. Should he try to take charge again? Right now, he was fine with Leliana taking over. Anything to get that qunari off his back. Just the relief of giving up control and Sten's constant glares took a too-heavy weight off his back. But part of him knew the qunari would respect him even less for being weak.

A faint prickling started to bother Raviathan's arm. He thought nothing of it at first, probably the effects from the icy water tickling his warming skin. Almost unconsciously, a faint tendril of magic extended to his arm, the same magic that regulated his adrenal feedback, and detected the oil that coated his skin.

"Shit!"

The others stopped to look at him.

Arms stretched out for balance, Raviathan stood straight, disgust mingled with a trace of horror. The others were staring at him. "The vines. They're poisonous."

Alistair let out a meep of panic, the rest doing what they could to minimize contact. "Deadly?" Leliana asked.

"I don't think so. More an irritant."

Grumbling under his breath, Sten marched up the rest of the way in quick strides. Morrigan took to wing as the rest were left to pick their way up with due haste. Raviathan was beginning to envy the witch's ability to the point of resentment.

"Vashedan." Sten's shoulders fell.

What now? Raviathan heard a low, growling sort of mewl as he breached the rise.

Ahead two bear cubs played.

Oh no.

The mother bear stared murder at them.


	45. Eyes of Wolves - Dead Heroes

“Come on, lad! Join us!”

Alistair’s face split into a grin as he made his way to the table where the rest were seated.

“Been three months with the Wardens. About time you joined us for a drink.” Kherek, an older dwarf with grey streaks in his russet beard, poured a goblet for Alistair. “Good to see new blood before I go.”

“You’re leaving?” Alistair straddled the seat with a goblet in hand. He sipped at the brew, a beer so dark it was near black, a favorite the dwarf swore by. The head rose so thick it stood three inches straight up from the goblet. Alistair didn’t know what to do with the foam. Did he lick it away? Blow it off? Try to drink with it? He decided the latter. The rest laughed when Alistair put down the goblet with a foam stalactite hanging off his nose.

Kherek laughed hardest, slapping Alistair on the back. “Good lad. Yar, I be off at the end of the week. Time to take my Calling.”

“What Calling?”

The rest sobered up though a few sad smiles remained. “Aye, lad. Happens to all of us who live long enough.”

“That’s the way to look at it.” Marcus had a friendly face, heavily lined with both laughter and scars. One thick scar marked his right cheek and split his wide mouth. Though not handsome, Marcus had a face full of character that made him easy to like. “The Calling means you survived more years than most Wardens have a right to.”

“Here, here!” Kherek lifted his goblet, and the rest joined in the toast. “I’ll be thanking the stone, were I a not a surfacer. Aye, but it’s been a good life with good fights. And one more for the Wardens.”

Levine pulled Alistair close. Alistair warmed with the weight of his senior Warden’s hand on his shoulder. Maker, but it felt good to be with the Wardens. Never before had Alistair felt so accepted. Almost immediately, he was a brother, treated just like the rest. He hadn’t even realized how alone he felt for so many years until the Wardens took him as one of their own. Tarimel remained distant, but he was like that with everyone, so Alistair didn’t feel excluded. Besides, the rest more than made up for one man’s cool treatment.

Praise the Maker, Alistair couldn’t remember a time he had been so happy. Every night he went to bed with a glow in his chest, near tears that he had found a place where he belonged.

“Don’t let this get you down, lad,” Levine said in his ear. “You know being a Warden isn’t an easy life. Constant war with darkspawn.”

“Oh yes. Of course.” Whatever the Wardens wanted, he would give. For the first time in his life, he had been chosen. Not shuffled off as an embarrassment or inconvenience, he had been chosen. Fought for, even.

“Ah, maybe Duncan should be the one to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Alistair lifted his head to look at Levine. Instead of Levine’s light brown eyes, he saw empty sockets.

“The Calling. Comes to us all if we live long enough.” Levine, eyeless, smiled sadly.

Alistair looked to the rest. Empty sockets gazed back.

“The Joining,” Marcus said, one bloody tear sliding down his cheek. “When you take in the taint, eventually, it takes you.”

“Aye,” said Kherek. He grinned over his mug of beer, two bloody streams leaking out his eye sockets. “Can’t escape the taint. You have nightmares, the song starts to get into your head. No help for it then.”

The mountain of a man, Grigor, slapped Kherek hard on the back. “Who wants to live forever, anyway? Be some doddering cripple who needs a wench to wipe the drool off your chin and shit off your ass?”

“Eh, there are worse fates than that,” Marcus laughed. “I could use more wenches in my life.” Short, brown hair and a few patches of flesh remained on his skeletal face.

Grigor laughed, his teeth looking large and blocky without the rest of his skin to cover them. “Drink up, me lad! Or do you feel up to another challenge?”

Levine shook Alistair’s shoulder companionably. “After the headaches you settled the rest of us with, no thanks. Can’t wear out our newest member so quickly!” Alistair felt each bone of Levine’s hand. When he glanced back at his senior Warden, all that was left was a laughing skull.

“Maker’s breath, Grigor.” Marcus leaned over the table to make his point. “You’ve got an unfair advantage now that Alistair’s the only one with a stomach left.”

“That’s right,” Levine chimed in. “With the rest of us dead, beer will go right through us!”

The skulls all laughed, their bones clicking.

“You’re not dead,” Alistair protested. Can’t be.

“Ah, lad.” Grigor slapped a giant bony hand on Alistair’s back. “Can’t be wishing back yesterday.”

No. Alistair felt his smile slipping. “But… here you are. Talking.”

“Dead men tell no lies!” Marcus slapped his hand against the table. Though there were no eyes, Alistair felt Marcus’s skull staring at him. “Read my lips, Alistair. Dead men tell no lies.”

This was just one of their jokes. Had to be. Something cold settled in Alistair’s stomach. His smile faltered. “You… you can’t be dead. You can’t leave me.”

“Laddie.” Kherek took a long drink from his beer only to have the contents slosh over the doublet that hung limply from his bones. “Death comes to us all, in time.”

“But…” Panic chased away the warmth Alistair felt. “But… what about Duncan?”

“I’m here, Alistair.” A skeleton walked in wearing Duncan’s armor, black hair tied back in a leather thong and beard neatly trimmed.

“Duncan!” Grigor shouted. “Join us! A last drink before we go.”

“You can’t go.” Alistair looked from one skull to another. “You can’t. Not now.”

Duncan’s voice, warm and patient and so familiar Alistair could feel his throat tighten, “The time has come for us, my boy.”

The Wardens rose, some patting Alistair’s shoulder or back as they left. Where they touched the chill of death penetrated deep into Alistair’s skin. Dread followed panic. “Wait! Just wait! Or let me go with you.”

“It’s not your time, my boy.” Duncan turned away. Where a stone wall had stood now only grey mists swirled.

“Duncan! Please!” Not this. Not now. Not when he just found a family.

“It’s been good, Alistair,” Marcus said.

“Marcus,” Alistair pleaded. He followed after the rest. “I’ll go with you!”

He chased after them through grey smoke. A flash of armor, a white bone, the last remnants of voices laughing, but as Alistair ran, the ghosts eluded him. “Please! Let me stay!”

Alistair ran until he couldn’t breathe, until he was so exhausted he thought he would throw up. Please don’t leave me! “Duncan.”

With a gasp, Alistair sat straight up. Leliana’s hand shook his foot. “You’re turn for watch,” she whispered.

A fresh wave of grief threatened to stop his heart. Maker, if only it would stop. Duncan, it should have been me on the field. “I’m awake.”

Thankfully the tent hid his face. Even so, Leliana remained crouched at the front. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just dreams, you know?”

She murmured, though acknowledgment or agreement, he couldn’t say.

“I’ll be fine. Go on.” The pain in his chest wasn’t just from the dream. He touched the bandage that covered the slashes the bear gave him two days before. Blasted thing itched. At this rate, he was going to have a complex about bears. And trees. And wasps. And poisonous vines. And forests in general.

His armor and boots felt extra cold as he struggled into them as quietly as he could. Rain soaked what wood they could find. He poked at the pitiful fire. Misery threatened to overtake him again. Try as he might, Alistair just couldn’t shake the loss he felt. He knew the others were tired of it, tired of him and his tears.

So what? They were asleep now, and Alistair could let his grief out.

The fire sputtered, gave a few pops, then settled back into a weak, low light. Alistair heaved a sigh and rubbed his short hair with one hand. He had been ready, too. Had been ready to follow the others and never wake up. He knew Duncan was heading into danger. He should have fought to stay by his side.

Duncan would be alive now. Everything would have been better.

A winking light in the distance caught Alistair’s attention. Too pale to be firelight. Should he wake the others?

Scowling, Alistair stood at the edge of their little camp. The light wasn’t winking, exactly. It bounced a bit as it moved, its light coming through trees as it floated back and forth. The light had a bluish tinge, almost cold.

There were no werewolves as far as Alistair could see. Definitely no darkspawn. He took a few steps to get a better look. Well, as far as he knew, plants and bears didn’t cast or hold light, but he wasn’t putting anything past this forest at this point. Was that a person or a shadow? Wake the others?

After they yelled at him for crushing the wasp nest, Alistair wasn’t too keen on giving the rest another chance to berate him for a mistake. How was he supposed to know the log was full of wasps? At least the itching from the poisoned oak distracted from the painful stings on the back of his neck and arms, and the bear scratches made the oak less noticeable.

Just a better look, make sure it was something the others should know about. Alistair tried to stay silent as he followed the light along the path. It kept bobbing and weaving about. Almost as if it was playing with him.

It veered further into the woods as Alistair followed. Maker, what was it? It would hide behind a tree, then peek out like a child playing tag. His earlier grief forgotten, Alistair smiled as he trailed after the bouncing light.

What a silly little thing.

The light hid under a fern, and as Alistair approached, it whizzed away. He swore he could hear it giggling.

“Come here, you.”

Laughing with the little light, Alistair started jogging to keep up. “Hold on.”

No more cares or worries, no more shame or loneliness. Leave that all behind. Just follow the happy little light.

“Oh, there you are!”

The light bounced around a small meadow, little sparkles trailing behind like laughing children. Alistair stumbled into the meadow, but no one laughed at him or sneered at his gracelessness. The light giggled, and Alistair giggled with it. The light spun around him, bobbed in front of his face.

Just out of reach. Alistair raised an arm, going to catch it, just a little more. The light danced around him, happy. Alistair grasped, aww, just an inch short. “I’m going to catch you.” Another swipe, just a finger’s breadth away.

“Alistair!”

He lowered his arm as if caught doing something wrong. What? No, he didn’t do anything bad. Not this time.

An elf. He knew that man. Why was he so angry. Always angry, Alistair thought with a frown.

A scream sounded, but as if far away. It echoed as if from a tunnel.

“Alistair, get your sword!”

What?

The elf lunged forward, sword in one hand, torch in the other. No, don’t hurt the light. It’s a sweet little light.

“Alistair!”

When Alistair turned, ready to put a arm out to ward away the attack, he didn’t see the light. Shocked, Alistair stumbled back. Shadows made substance, two eyes like burning coals filled with hate. Alistair tripped, scrambled backwards to get away from the gaping mouth filled with teeth, like a cave with row after row of needles to swallow him down. “Maker!”

Sticks crunched under Alistair’s weight, the meadow filled with dozens of twigs. No, not sticks. Alistair yelled in horror at the pile of bones he lay on. He couldn’t get to his feet fast enough.

Raviathan crouched between him and the shade. He feinted with the torch, making the shade shy back, then shoved his sword into the shifting shadows. The thing hissed. It moved like nightmares, twisting and flowing.

The crack of old bones under Alistair’s feet made him sick. His sword shook in his hand.

Maker, light my way through the dark,

Let no shadow touch my heart.

The words came to him unbidden, repeated over and over like a mantra. Still, he couldn’t get his nerve together to fight the shade.

A choking cry, the shade shuddered, and the last remnants of solid shadow shifted to nothingness.

Alistair felt ready to collapse. His knees shook and cold sweat covered him. He would have fallen had the ground not been littered with scores of bones. Sickened to his core, Alistair tore out of the death trap back to the woods. He leaned against a tree so as not to fall.

That thing nearly had me.

“What were you thinking?” Raviathan stormed up to him.

“Th-There was a light. At first I just wanted to see what it was.”

“You idiot! You could have been killed. Who sees a wisp in the middle of nowhere and thinks, ‘oh fun, let’s just see where this mysterious light goes?’ For the love of the Maker. Next time, Alistair, think! It can’t be that hard.”

At this moment, he didn’t even care. He leaned down with his forearms against his thighs, sword barely held in limp fingers.

“Are you going to vomit?”

“I don’t know.”

Raviathan huffed and leaned against a tree opposite him. “Use your finger if you need to. You might feel better. Not that we can waste the food.”

“I think I’ll be fine. Just a minute.”

“What were you thinking? When you saw the light.”

The misery that always followed him surfaced. “I was… I had a dream. I was with the other Wardens. We were talking. Drinking together, but they were all dead. I wanted to follow them.” He tried to hold back the sob, but it only hurt his chest more from the effort. “I just wanted to see what it was before waking everyone up. And then… I don’t know. I started feeling happy.”

A long moment passed with neither speaking. When Alistair looked up, Raviathan had an unreadable expression.

“Come on, Alistair,” he said gently. “Let’s get back to camp.”

He felt better after a few sips of water. The torch light wasn’t as easy to follow as the wisp had been, but it was warm. The shadows seemed thicker this time. “You called it a wisp?”

Raviathan glanced back at him, his eyes reflecting the light like sun through stained glass. How could his eyes be brighter than the torch that reflected through them? “Yes. Wisps are fragmented spirits. Looks like that one had been here awhile. Preying on travelers. Seems that one entices you with what you want. Like a desire demon.”

Alistair thought about that for a moment. He had heard about wisps in his training but never seen one. Maker’s breath, he should have known better. “How did you know…”

A soft green light rose from further west. Dousing the torch, Raviathan started in that direction.

“Isn’t it dangerous?” After he just had gotten yelled at, Alistair felt that tracing after mysterious glowing light was hypocritical at best.

“Probably. Be on guard.”

He followed the elf’s lead, though how Raviathan managed to be so quiet walking through a forest of blackest shadow, Alistair would never know. A hole jarred his ankle then a root tried to break it with his next step. 

“Oh, wow.”

Cursing the forest under his breath, Alistair got to his knees to peer under the tall fern with Raviathan. What he saw stole his breath. “Maker. What is this?”

Raviathan shook his head in wonder. “A battle? Sarel said the Veil is thin here. Perhaps the remnants of spirits reenacting the last moments of their life?”

Before them translucent elves in bright armor fought, but their enemy remained in shadow. The whole field was awash in a blue-green glow. Tendrils of smoke obscured details, yet the noble bearing of the warriors shown clear. Their features seems odd to Alistair, the bridges of their noses more pronounced, their faces longer and narrower with shorter foreheads, and more angular features.

One powerful elf commanded the rest. His sword glowed bright as if reflecting sunlight through water. He showed no fear, only grim determination, as if he knew his life would be over shortly but he would fight to the end. Behind him, more elves, outfitted in the same ancient armor, stood at the ready. An army?

“I’ve never seen armor like that. Not even in the histories.” Alistair scared breathe as he watched. Intricately designed, the armor appeared to be silverite though the elves wore robes over the shining metal. Hard to tell with the strangeness of the image, but the craftsmanship remained clear.

“Could this be before Tevinter?”

Awed, Alistair could only shake his head bemusement.

Snatches of command rose from the vision. Raviathan grasped Alistair’s arm as they listened to words whose meaning had long been forgotten.

“To think what we’ve lost.”

Alistair tore his eyes away to glimpse Raviathan. Unshed tears glistened, a look of longing naked on the elf’s face. He gasped, and Alistair turned back to the ghostly vision.

The lead elf held a sword in one hand, but a ball of fire floated above his open palm. At a final shout, he hurled the fireball ahead to the unseen enemy. The rest shouted, and as one, they charged forward, the vision disappearing into the past.

Introspective, Raviathan sat back on his haunches. What would it be like to lose so much of your history? Alistair didn’t know what to say. Seemed like it didn’t matter. Everything he said angered the elf, but he should try. “Amazing. Warriors and magic in one. I’m… I’m sorry so much history has been lost.”

Raviathan gave him that unreadable expression again as the last light faded from the clearing. “Indeed.” After another moment shared in the privacy of darkness, Raviathan re-lit the torch, then handed it to Alistair. “Here. I don’t need this to see at night.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

With the torch in hand, Alistair had an easier time picking his way through the forest. His journey with the wisp didn’t seem half so long as the way back. “Rav? How did you know to find me?”

“Venger woke me. He’s about, somewhere. Probably marking a tree.”

Alistair snickered at that. The dog was on a mission to mark the entire nation. A low whistle from Raviathan, and Venger came bounding through the woods. “Lot of good you were against that shade.”

The dog whined at his master’s mild rebuke. Raviathan gave the dog a rueful smile and a scratch behind one ear. “Silly git.”

At least Alistair wasn’t the only one to find himself in trouble with the elf tonight. Now if only he could figure out the trick of getting off so lightly. Sod it. Alistair could do pathetic, but pathetic and adorable were beyond him. 

They reached the well worn trail near camp when Alistair tripped over a root. The torch bounced a few feet away before Raviathan snatched it. The elf continued on with a huff and shaking his head in a typical combination of frustration and disgust at whatever Alistair did.

Annoyed, Alistair yanked his foot to get up. He grunted, yanking again. “Wait, I’m trapped.”

Scowling, Raviathan glanced back over his shoulder. “What’s wrong now?”

Alistair gave another tug then twisted his ankle to try to free himself. Shadows obscured his ankle so he couldn’t tell if it had been a root or something else.

Raviathan opened his mouth, but his words froze on his lips. Alistair glanced up to see the elf’s eyes gone wide. Turning, Alistair saw the ground around the trail swell and heave like water. A second later, Raviathan started kicking at Alistair’s restraint. A bony hand grasped Alistair’s ankle. Bits of rotted leather armor clung to the thing’s wrist. He shrieked at the sight. Another foot fall, and the bone broke, though the hand continued to clutch Alistair’s ankle.

Shuddering, Alistair continued to kick at the hand until it broke off.

“Come on!” Raviathan grabbed Alistair’s arm, tugging him to his feet. “Wake up,” he yelled at the camp. “Attack! To arms!”

Venger bounced around the tumultuous ground, barking madly. Sten emerged first with his sword in hand.

Arms reached out from the earth, grasping, some pulling the rest of their remains out of the earth. Alistair recoiled in horror, stomping on the nearest arms as if they were cockroaches. Raviathan wielded the torch in one hand, his sword in the other. He brought the blade down to crack brittle skulls or kick at arms, though more came to replace the old.

Gathering his wits, Alistair armed his sword and shield, discipline taking the place of panic. He tried to find the edge of the field of battle to keep himself from being flanked or lose his balance in the continually churning earth. Though he had heard of spirits taking over the bodies of the dead, the reason corpses needed to be burned, he had never seen undead in person before. No book or lecture could prepare him for the strangeness of walking skeletons or for the scent of earth and rot that clung to the decayed bodies. At least the battles against darkspawn seasoned him against the monstrous.

Rib cages followed skulls as the mass of skeletons emerged from their graves. Debris of their former lives clung to the undead: bits of rusted armor hanging off of shoulders and hip bones, tattered fabric that disintegrated as it was pulled, a leather greave that stuck to bone. A few retained jewelry, the dull glint of a dirty ring, a soft shine of stones in a necklace, tiny hints of the history of people who had died here. Though the skeletons had no lungs or voices, somehow they still emitted angry hisses.

By unspoken agreement, the party formed a line between the skeletons and their camp. Morrigan stayed behind the line while Leliana found a boulder to give her a vantage point for her arrows.

Good, thought Alistair. Their fights always fell to chaos. This show of discipline is what they needed.

Swords cut through brittle bones. It would be a long fight, but it was a winnable one.

A cry of surprise, and the torch lighting the battle was flung in the middle of the skeleton field. A chaos of light and shadow confused Alistair’s vision. The remains of the fire stung his eyes so he couldn’t see through the shadows. A weapon scored along his breastplate, another on his thigh. Alistair felt the heavy weight of the weapons though they did not penetrate. A heavy thud on his left side staggered him.

Maker's breath, how? Morrigan called out in fear. Alistair turned to see her backing away, flinging spells out wildly, precision gone. What happened to Raviathan? He had been defending the middle. Sten’s sword slammed through a few of the skeletons, but his style left many openings for attack.

Clawed fingers grabbed Alistair’s face, the bones digging into his flesh. Alistair turned only to see the open maw of a skull. Dirt clods kept together by tiny roots hung inside the skull’s mouth. Death and earth. Blocky teeth snapped together next to his eye. He yelled, panicked, kicked and shoved to get the thing off him.

Alistair backed into the edge of the wood, anything to block these things. He heard screaming, not his own. Leliana had some safety on her boulder with Sten defending her, but the two would be swamped in little time. He couldn’t see Morrigan, but spells kept coming. Where was…?

A shift of the shadows, and Alistair spied Venger racing through the field of undead. A suicidal act, to be sure, but the powerful dog cut a path through the monsters.

The undead kept coming, wave after wave, arms outstretched, grasping. Alistair shattered one’s ribcage, swept another’s legs away, sent his shield smashing into another. Still they came. He’d break one, but it wouldn’t stop. Break their legs, and arms would pull them forward. Shatter ribs, and the skull atop a spine continued forward like a grotesque snake.

“Help!”

A raven swooped over the army of undead towards the cry. Alistair couldn’t see through the flickering light and legion of shifting dead.

A chill encapsulated him. Magic! Could it be some hidden apostate making the dead rise? Where? The cold encased him as solid as a fist. In an instant, Alistair went flying, crashing through a field of bones.

An armored figure, dark as night with eyes that glowed like embers, towered over him. Alistair dove as a massive two handed sword came for his death. He rolled, but the blade sliced along his back. He could hear the screech of the sword cutting through his armor, the heat that came as his skin sliced open before the pain set in.

Alistair scrambled for his dropped sword, his shield raised in defense from another blow. Maker, the thing moved so fast! Not even Sten could swing his sword like that. He heard a savage growl, turned to see Venger leap at the towering undead. Teeth buried deep, Venger stayed locked even as the monster swung the great dog back and forth, trying to dislodge him.

Ice encased the monstrous undead’s feet. Raviathan limped from behind the shadowy form. He was bent over, clearly in pain. The undead, a revenant? It swung around, backhanding the elf and sending him flying. Alistair took the opening to try to stab the revenant. He blocked a swing of the massive sword, the shock making his arm go numb. Alistair staggered, his swing off, but sheer desperation won him a glancing blow.

The massive sword came again. Alistair barely got his sword up, enough that he dulled the main of the blow, but the shield bent, crushing against his chest. Venger kept biting at the revenant, savaging the monster with fierce pulls, but the dog seemed to have no effect. Another blow from the sword to his shield, and Alistair was sure his arm was broken.

An inhuman scream pierced Alistair’s ears, the sound turning his blood to ice. Two bolts quivered in the revenant’s chest. It looked down at the arrow shafts, took a few fumbling steps back, as if shocked by their appearance. Another arrow thudded into its chest. Venger dragged the flailing monster down.

With a pained scream, Raviathan slammed his knife down into the creature’s throat. He sawed at the neck, black blood streaming out of the wound, gushing out like a geyser to turn to smoke as it touched the ground. The elf kept stabbing, sawing back and forth long after the monster had died, didn’t stop until he had pried the head clean off.

Alistair stood on shaky legs. He knew he had to get to his feet now or the pain would paralyze him once the adrenaline wore off. Already his body burned with reaction. Whatever force had animated the undead was gone. Alistair watched as the bodies fell to the ground in heaps, the bones clacking. On the other side, Sten heaved great breaths. Leliana slid down to her knees and buried her face in one hand.

“Mor-rigan.” Raviathan’s voice shook. Venger whined as he pranced back and forth on his feet, wanting to help but not knowing what to do. Blood coated the elf from a dozen wounds. The witch was at his side, an arm around to help him to the woods.

What?

“Where are you going?”

“He needs healing.” She glared at him as if his question had been stupid.

“Well, clearly, but why not just heal him here?” When neither answered, Alistair moved forward to help.

“No!” Raviathan shouted at him. With an effort, he spoke calmly though his voice remained tight with pain. “Just stay there. She’ll help me.”

Alistair didn’t know what to do or how to feel as he watched the two limp off with Venger close behind. He felt hurt and shame for being excluded again, for being someone who couldn’t be trusted. On top of the attacks, Alistair wanted to fall over and weep. Nightmares and chaos and everything out to get them. 

Shaking, he leaned against a tree, desperate to get his feelings under control. Was he wrong to feel hurt? Raviathan was in pain. He had a right to seek healing however he needed. But the hurt feeling wouldn’t abate. Alistair wondered why he was always shut out.

Unsure what to do, he walked around the edges of the field, not wanting to get near the bones again, and made his way to Leliana and Sten.

As the least wounded, Leliana did her best to shore up the weak campfire. By the wane fire’s light, Alistair found more wounds that went unnoticed in the heat of battle. Most were shallow but would need attention to keep from festering. The worst was his back. With Leliana’s help, he got his breast plate off. He couldn’t breathe, and Maker, his arm hurt something fierce. Sten, woken from sleep in the middle of the night, had no armor and far worse cuts that Alistair could see. Nothing to do but wait for their healers to return.

Alistair broke out of his thoughts when he saw Leliana roughly wipe away a tear with a shaking hand. Even with the warmth of firelight, she looked pale.

“Leliana?”

She sniffed, her head turned away as if embarrassed. “I…” She stopped with a little laugh. Both he and Sten watched her, waiting for her to continue. “Who knew? The nightmares, the endless danger. Who knew this forest would hold so many terrors? I did not think this would be easy, but undead in the middle of the night?”

Alistair didn’t know what to do. He had no words for her. Should he put a hand on her shoulder? Maker's breath, he felt so awkward. Everything he could think of to say sounded trivial and weak. And if she started, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop. Oh, Maker. Duncan would know what to do.

“Shhh. It’s alright, Leliana.”

Alistair hadn’t heard the elf or witch approach, but there they were. Raviathan had an arm around Leliana. Such gestures seemed so natural from the elf.

“Morrigan, start boiling some water.” Raviathan kissed Leliana’s hair. The elf’s armor was badly damaged, a testament to the wounds he had received. His voice carried warmth and authority, like a father one would loath to disobey. “I know it’s hard, Leli. No one expected this. Take a moment, we’ll have some tea, and go from there. Put your head between your knees and take a few deep breaths, okay?”

She nodded, doing as was told. Raviathan got his healer’s kit and started to work on Sten. The two healers said nothing to each other, Raviathan doing most of the work while Morrigan watched. He cleaned Sten’s wounds, made poultices and wrapped bandages around the stoic giant. At a murmured command, Morrigan waved her hands in some complex spell while the elf turned his back to put his kit back together. Green flames danced over the qunari’s wounds. Though Sten looked like he would prefer to go without the magical healing, the rigidity in his face eased as his pain ebbed.

Alistair came next. He needed help to sit by the fire. After being shoved off before, it felt strange now that he was the center of the healers’ attentions.

“Is my arm broken?” Maker, did that ever hurt.

The elf palpated his arm with gentle fingers. “No. Badly bruised. Probably down to the bone. Looks like you wrenched your shoulder a bit. If you can, go easy on it.”

Alistair hissed in pain when the elf touched his side.

“Fractured two of your ribs though.”

The elf gave soft orders to Leliana and Morrigan as he worked. Alistair closed his eyes as he was ministered to. It felt good: warm water to clean his wounds, balms that soothed away his pain, a tea that calmed him.

“Alright, Morrigan.”

The witch did her little witchy gestures, and green flames danced along Alistair’s skin. He watched, fascinated. Maker’s breath. Wasn’t magic amazing? A few weird gestures, and even someone as horrid as Morrigan worked wonders. Wounds that would take weeks if not months to heal, it was just… so cool. Alistair could swear he felt his skin knitting back together. All soft warmth deep inside him, then no pain. Just amazing.

Alistair tested out the healing. He gasped at a sharp pain in his ribs, but the cuts were gone. “Ribs still feel tender.”

“They will be for a while,” Raviathan said.

His shoulder was also sore. “You can’t heal that?”

Morrigan opened her mouth, surprised. “I… well…”

“Um, I suppose magical healing has limits then, Morrigan?” Raviathan supplied.

“Uh, yes. Deeper… wounds. And I was taxed. After the battle.”

Alistair tried to keep the smirk off his face. Don’t like having your limits exposed, do you? “Well, um, shouldn’t you wrap my ribs then?”

Raviathan’s brows knit. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Alistair rubbed his side. “Just. That’s what I’ve seen.”

“No point.” Raviathan closed his healer’s kit. “It won’t support your bones or keep them straight. All wrapping your chest will do is restrict your breathing which will make you more susceptible to lung diseases like pneumonia. In fact, even if it hurts, you need to take as deep a breath as you can every hour.”

“Oh.” Alistair wasn’t sure if the elf was brushing him off or if what he said was true. When he and other templars in training had cracked or broken their ribs, the trainers always wrapped them. Uncertainty and sadness warred inside. The elf didn’t like him, which was painful enough, but would he deliberately risk Alistair’s health?

Thank the Maker Leliana had joined their party. Of all the people here, she was the only one he felt he could ask to help him with his armor, a task that would be near impossible with the pain in his ribs. His cheeks heated as he thought of asking her for such personal help. Nothing to be done for it except sleep in his armor, which was not much of a choice.

“Let’s get breakfast on and see what we can do about burning the bones.” Raviathan crouched down next to Leliana, rubbed her back, and murmured soft words. The color was back in her cheeks. She was even able to manage a small smile. Alistair tried to think of what he had done that was so bad that he didn’t warrant even a little compassion. Sten seemed not to care about anyone, and Alistair didn’t give a fig what Morrigan thought. Sneaky witch. But here was a Grey Warden, his brother. He just didn’t understand the elf’s attitude.

Dawn remained hours away. No one had enough sleep, but after the battle they just fought, Alistair supposed sleep wouldn’t come to anyone anytime soon. Besides, his stomach perked up at the sound of breakfast.

Thankfully, the camp hadn’t been disturbed. They started the process of breaking up camp and beginning the day. Raviathan stared at the field of bones with his fists on his hips, lost in thought.

Already Alistair felt like he had had a full day. At least there would be food.

In the distance, the howls of wolves echoed.


	46. Eyes of Wolves - Two Paths

Raviathan suppressed a sigh. “Morrigan, what am I doing wrong?” 

The yellow-eyed witch laughed at his consternation. “Nothing,” she said in her sultry voice. “Maybe you just aren’t a bear on the inside. It has been a long time since I learned this skill. I remember little of the struggle. Perhaps it is harder if you change into something with a smaller or larger mass the first time, so try something that is closer to your size. A wild cat maybe.” 

That option hadn’t occurred to him as he had been focused on a form to help him fight, but the idea had possibilities. He liked cats, even had a long-haired orange cat as a child, though pets were considered a luxury in the alienage. Dales had been a sweet little beastie, and Raviathan had mourned for his treasured pet when the cat had disappeared during a lean winter. Later Raviathan grew to understand what could drive the other elves to such extremes when the rats started to become less and less available, but he never forgave the nameless elf. His mother had sung to him as he cried, one of the few times when she allowed tears without recrimination. 

A cat would be easy. He understood how they moved, their prowl and curiosity. He’d have to see the specifics of a wild one though, and while Nijel had pointed out tracks or kills left in trees, the forest cats had an almost preternatural ability to hide. “It’s hard to find one to study in the wild. They’re pretty crafty.” 

“'Tis true,” Morrigan said. “I have not mastered that form yet myself. They are elusive to me even when I am a bird. Perhaps a wolf would suit you then.” 

“Aren’t we hunting those? Besides, they’re awful beasts.” 

“Awful? What makes you opine so?”

Nibbling on his lower lip, Raviathan considered her question. At times the differences in their backgrounds amazed him, her way of thinking alien to what he considered common sense. The only thing they had in common was their status as apostates, and even then, she had no notion the fear that an apostate in the city lived with on a daily basis when templars lurked around every block. In many ways, seeing through her experience rocked his view of the world to the point he needed a few minutes if not days to wrap his mind around the concepts.

“You’ve lived in the Wilds your whole life, so you don’t know what it’s like to have a lot of people in one place where you can’t farm or hunt for your own food. It’s just not possible, so we rely on farmers for our lives. If you’re hunting a deer, a wolf is a competitor, but that’s all. Wolves target farm stock for an easy kill. As a farmer that’s your livelihood, but if you live in the city, there’s nothing to do but starve. As a hunter, you at least have the option of finding something else.” 

A disgusted frown touched Morrigan’s lips, Raviathan had to force away the thought of how full those lips were, how kissable that little pout could be. His fingernails bit into his palm, leaving little white crescents in his flesh. He didn’t even want Morrigan! The old lusts, the ones that had nearly destroyed his standing in the alienage, had gone unsatisfied for too long. The pressure in his groin mirrored the heavy yet hollow feeling in his stomach, the disgust he felt for the unquenchable desires that hounded him. He turned his attention to the leaves rustling in the night wind. 

“'Tis most strange. How you live so dependent upon one another.” 

Even with his attention turned elsewhere, Raviathan remained too aware of her skin showing pale in the moonlight, of how easy it would be to take advantage of Morrigan’s offer. How he hated his traitorous body. 

“I think your feelings on wolves are perhaps unfair.” 

With an effort, Raviathan brought his mind back to the conversation. Surprised by the melancholy turn of his fellow apostate, Raviathan asked gently, “Morrigan?”

She leaned back, her face to the stars. “Nature is savage and unforgiving. It is the way of animals to be hunted as food for others or territory, and this I understand. Even apex predators can be injured and find their end comes early.” She hesitated before adding, “'Tis unfortunate that these creatures must be hunted for being what they are, not what they provide.” 

Well, of course wolves were hunted for what they were, vicious animals that killed, sometimes without eating the livestock they slaughtered. Killing wolves on sight was simple self defense. Raviathan expected that pointing out such a fact would alienate Morrigan, so he decided on tact. “I have heard of nobles who hunt for sport only, kill the animals and leave them. I’ve always found that distasteful. If it’s any consolation, we do try to utilize as much as we can from the animals we’ve killed.” In all honesty he was surprised that Morrigan cared, but then maybe she felt more of a kinship with animals having spent the majority of her time with them rather than humans. “I don’t think a wolf is for me though.” 

“I have noticed your fondness for the halla. That might be a good form for you.” 

While a halla didn’t have a bear’s size or power, Raviathan had been awed by them from first sight, their delicate grace and noble bearing. With coats as pure as fresh snow and elegantly-twined horns that glowed like coalesced moonlight, the creatures were beyond beautiful, encapsulating all that was perfection in nature. His heart expanded whenever he caught a glimpse of a halla in the wild as if the creatures held the spirit of hope inside them. The problem with Morrigan’s suggestion was that he didn’t feel worthy enough to be one of the revered creatures. They were special, not for him. “What was the first animal you ever turned into?” 

“A giant spider. It is still my preferred form though I use others more often. Your first form will always be special, a mark of who you are.” 

“A spider?” 

Morrigan hesitated, her eyes closed and mouth tense. “At that time, I needed something that set me apart from Mother. In that form, I could distance myself.” 

You found a way to not hurt, Raviathan knew. Flemeth could not have been an easy mother, and with no one else in Morrigan’s life to help her through the years, only the old crone, the child must have been desperate to claim a space Flemeth couldn’t touch. 

“I understand,” Raviathan said, his voice matching the quiet of the night.

Morrigan made a show of shaking off her mood, but Raviathan could see the pain she couldn’t hide. “I have come to understand more of nature’s ways since that time. The raven, as you know, a woodpecker, raccoon, a few types of snake, and a skunk.” 

Though she didn’t look at him, he could tell by her demeanor she was testing him. If Alistair had heard Morrigan could turn into a skunk, he would have laughed his little templar ass off. In truth, Raviathan wanted to tease her, but she didn’t take jests well when she was the focus. As it was, Morrigan had been teaching him how to understand an animal’s essential nature, and mockery in return for that gift would be unchivalrous at best. 

In some ways, the form suited her. Skunks had attractive coloration, and Morrigan did love her decorations and stylized rags, a vanity she liked to indulge in more than she let on. Skunks enjoyed the benefit of a reputation in the form of a sharp reply for those who attacked them, a similarity that spoke volumes about Morrigan. 

“I can see that.” At her glance, he gave the witch a sly grin. “While admirable from a distance, nobody dares to poke a skunk with a stick.” 

A little laugh warmed her countenance. “Am I only admirable from a distance?” 

Would a light kiss on her bare shoulder be so bad? No, Rav. You aren’t going to be stupid, and getting involved with her would be stupid. You’re smarter than your damned cock. 

Right?

Maker’s ass. She wasn’t even interested in him. Not really. While Raviathan was sure she would receive pleasure from the act, that wasn’t her goal. Bedding him was more for her ego, or in a hope to have some control, but not out of affection or even desire. 

Yet he couldn’t get his mind off of sex, a problem made worse around Morrigan’s open display of flesh. Raviathan swallowed down the bitter hollowness that clawed inside him, the dull ache that never left him at peace. The temporary relief he found when alone inevitably made the self disgust worse. 

Only with Ness had he felt any peace. 

A growl from Raviathan’s stomach gave him the excuse he needed. “I think I should check if dinner is ready.” 

She gave him a nod as he took his leave, her own stomach seeming not so hollow as his.

Raviathan made his way through the thick brush to camp. Though the distance from the rest of the party made the two vulnerable to attack, that was the only secure way to discuss magic. With Morrigan’s ability to transform, either for escape or attack, Raviathan wasn’t worried for her safety. 

Echos of Raviathan’s nightmares hung in the back of his mind as he walked back to camp, dream memories that veiled the forest in sinister shadows. Yet the beauty of the forest couldn’t be denied, even with the horrors and monsters. How strange his life had become in a few short months, by turns terrifying and filled with awe. 

As a child, Raviathan had imagined forests as hills with trees on them, a few animals, maybe a river or lake interspersed. All his games with his cousins, when they pretended at being Dalish or woodland bandits, were framed by the mud puddles and shabby apartment constructs of the alienage. 

Raviathan’s few experiences outside of Denerim consisted of training in a flat farmlands and tame woods where his aunt taught him herbs or his mother showed him how to use a bow. He had never seen a waterfall until his trek with Duncan, never seen a real forest or mountain. Words like glen, ravine, canyon, bog, or cliff had been abstractions to be read about, not experienced. 

He was completely unprepared for the variety of landscapes, the scents and unexplained noises that came with a true wilderness. He expected the forest floor to be covered in grass or bare earth, not thick ferns and brush that spread out in a lush multitude that made passage impossible. 

Raviathan had no idea about the variety of flora he would encounter outside the city walls, how the tiny leafed beech trees fluttered in the wind and turned the light a soft green. In other areas, pine and ironbark were interspersed with mammoth sequoias that dominated the sky like ancient kings. The forest lay thick with hillocks and cliffs, with stone-framed creeks or rushing rivers fed by natural springs. Thorn bushes that would bear small juicy berries in summer lined the rivers in ten foot high growths. Waterfalls born from the spring rains flourished, their crashing babble adding to the constant twitter of dull-colored songbirds and their brightly-hued cousins. Bright purple mushrooms and intense green lichen grew from the decaying corpse of a fallen tree. Even as the violence of the forest overwhelmed him, Raviathan couldn’t help but love it. 

If only he could understand the forest as Morrigan did. This might not be her realm as the swamp was, but she had a natural feeling for the place. 

Maker’s ass. He wasn’t terrible at magic, was he? All he had to compare to was Solyn. She had been every bit as hard as his mother, but he always got the sense she was impressed with him. Each time he reached for the mana to power the shapeshifting spell, it just fizzled out in a directionless wash of wasted energy, unable to take form because he couldn’t understand how to channel his power. 

Understand the soul of the creature, Morrigan had said. The first transformation was one of the most important as it was the deepest echo of your soul. Perhaps that was why he was failing. As she said, he probably wasn’t a bear on the inside. But what was he missing?

As far as understanding the creature, bears were big and strong. What else was there to understand? They liked to sleep, were protective of their young, enjoyed fruits and fish. He admired their power, their sheer size and force of muscle that made them incredible. Though well-developed compared to his kin, Raviathan would always be weaker than most humans, a fact that tore at his spirit each time he thought of the archdemon waiting for him. 

At the camp Sten repaired armor while Leliana searched for more firewood, which left Alistair on cooking duty. The templar tried to remain upright and winced each time he had to bend over to tend the rabbit. He snatched the spit, blowing on the carcass to put out the fire. More charred rabbit. The human hadn’t been kidding about his cooking ability. 

To be fair, Raviathan should have done the cooking tonight and let Alistair rest, but lessons with Morrigan were hard to arrange with the constant proximity of the party. Raviathan sat on a rock and put an arm over Venger’s shoulders and spoke to the dog in a low voice. “I don’t suppose you have anything better?” 

In response the dog whined in concern. Raviathan scratched the dog’s ears. “Guess I’ll have to make do then. Hope you caught something tasty earlier.” 

The angry rumbling of his stomach drove Raviathan to get his portion of food. Some root vegetables Morrigan had been able to scavenge and beans rounded out the meal. The provisions would last for another week before they’d have to head back to restock. Raviathan took the offered hind leg, which was thankfully less charred, while Alistair divided up the rest of the food between himself, Sten, and Leliana. Raviathan never seemed to get enough food lately. He went to devouring his dinner with a fury that outdid the dog. 

Alistair sat down on the rock next to Raviathan, his back at an unnatural angle to ease the pain of damaged ribs. 

“So. You’ve been spending a lot of time with Morrigan lately.” 

Thinking a reply wasn’t required, Raviathan shrugged. He supposed it would be rude to scoot away, let alone leave. Of all his companions, why did Alistair have to sit next to him? Sten was at least quiet if not downright dour but would occasionally say something when prodded. Leliana could prattle on so, and on the most ridiculous subjects, but he didn’t mind. Her chatter gave him a chance to be quiet and reflect. 

Alistair and Morrigan never seemed to get tired of bickering, a habit that wore on everyone except the dog. Raviathan nibbled at his lip as he thought about the two. As much as they fought, Alistair hadn’t done anything to her in retaliation. Was Alistair biding his time? Lothering had been chaos, but what would he do to Morrigan when they went to fulfill the mage treaty? What was the man capable of? If he got mad or disapproved of Raviathan’s decisions, what would the templar do? 

Solyn had been more than capable of defending herself with magic against almost anyone, anyone except templars. The day Raviathan found her mutilated body burned in his mind like a brand still raw to the touch. Never turn your back on a templar. Never think you’re safe from them. 

Like so much else in his life, Raviathan felt as if he were scrambling around in the dark. He needed information. Would Alistair tell him the truth? Even lies spoke about a person’s character. He would need to separate fact and fiction, and that would tell him more about Alistair. “I’ve been curious, Alistair. What can a templar do?” 

Alistair glanced at him in surprise. “Um. Well, we’re trained to fight. Essentially. But to anyone but a mage, I guess I’m just another guy in a metal suit.”

“Duncan recruited you for a reason. You’re a good enough fighter, but you’re more than that, aren’t you? What kind of training did you get?” 

“He thought my templar skills might come in handy against darkspawn magic.” As Raviathan hoped, Alistair perked up with the compliment, and he sounded less glum. “Templars gain a resistance to magic after a time. We’re not immune by any means, but mind magic becomes less of an issue the more discipline we have, and we can disrupt spells and drain mana. Mana is what mages use to power their spells.” 

“Mind magic,” said Raviathan. He hadn’t heard of any spells like that. Was that blood magic? Solyn had told him a bit about it, why it was evil, but not much else. “What exactly is that?” 

“It’s supposed to be something that was first learned from demons. I’ve never seen it myself, but the other templars talked. Wanted to warn us about what could happen. Maker’s breath, there were so many stories. One was forced to kill his fellow templars. He said they suddenly looked like demons that were taunting him. One of the older templars, oh I can’t remember his name, starts with an H. Henry? Harrold? Anyway he killed a friend he knew for ten years when under the blood mage’s spell.” Alistair shuddered then winced from jarring his own injuries. “Another said he had no control. The blood in his body forced him to move as if he were a puppet, but he knew everything he was doing and couldn’t stop. He killed his comrades, people he had known for years, his friends, and couldn’t stop. There were so many stories like that.” 

The magical manipulation sounded too close to what Solyn had told him about demons. Her voice echoed up from a memory pushed down into the deepest, most forgotten corner of his mind. _The demon will ride you, use your body. You will kill us all, and there’s nothing you can do about it!_

Cold sweat drenched Raviathan’s body. If he ever gave in to a demon, he would become an abomination. The night his family learned of his magic, his beloved aunt screamed her fear into him. Raviathan felt his heart pounding at the memory, his breath coming faster. With a force of will, he pushed the memories back down. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about that night. 

The templar was talking to him. What?

“Rav? Are you alright? Rav,” he said, shaking the elf’s shoulder. 

Raviathan had to clear his throat before he could rasp out, “Fine. Um. Guess that seems pretty horrible.” Alistair was watching him closely. Maker’s ass! Had he just given himself away? “I’m fine. Really. I guess…” He had to swallow some water to down the bile that threatened to rise. “I guess your cooking just got to my stomach.”

At the continued gaze of the templar, Raviathan forced a weak grin. “Poor Sten. Got the most charred bit. Maybe will see qunari vomit later.” 

“Charming.” Alistair cracked a half smile as he looked at his plate, empty save for bones. The templar didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he was willing to leave off for a bit. “At least my food has some taste to it. Your cooking makes gruel taste spicy.” 

“Really?” 

Alistair frowned at him. “Can’t you taste your own food? No wonder.” 

“I…” With a slow dawning of awareness, Raviathan realized he hadn’t been thinking about his cooking. Not since… he slumped as he thought of Ness. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Um. I’ll try to work on that.” 

“It’s not a big deal.” Alistair watched him with a touch of concern. “Wonder why they call it gruel, anyway. Like it’s not awful enough, it has to sound cruel, too. Do you think that was intentional?”

Letting Alistair prattle on, Raviathan took the time to center. His mother would have chided him for getting so easily sidetracked and losing control of the conversation. Raviathan gave himself a mental shake. Ever since Duncan had recruited him, he had no sense of balance, always reacting with no reflection. When Alistair’s musings on culinary tortures started to ebb, Raviathan brought him back to the topic. “What else can you tell me about templars?” 

Alistair shrugged, which garnered another wince. “What do you want to know? Some stuff needs to remain secret to the templars, but I can answer a few questions.” 

Now that he was talking to an actual templar, he wasn’t sure what to ask. All his life they were people to avoid or run from. They were the enemy. He hadn’t ever thought beyond that. Templar. Run. That was easy. So, what to ask? “Okay. How does the hierarchy work? Are templars in charge, or is the Chantry?” 

“Fair enough since that’s pretty common knowledge. The Chantry is in charge. The templars have a strict hierarchy with the Knight-Commander of each nation at the lead. The one for Ferelden, Greagoir, usually stays at the Circle Tower, but every chantry has a minor Knight-Commander, like Lothering did.” 

Raviathan listened as Alistair went through the various ranks and duties. Though Raviathan never cared for military history, after Ostagar he understood his life depended on his ability to learn. As a Grey Warden recruit, Raviathan expected to follow orders, but that notion had long been driven from his head. Sten’s smart comment the other night on his lack of experience had stung, but the qunari’s assessment remained true. Raviathan needed to get better at commanding. 

When Alistair finished the lecture, Raviathan asked, “But if they’re an army, why do they bother to take orders from the Chantry? Why not use them as advisers instead?” 

The power of the Chantry came from the faith of the believers, but who wielded that power could be templars as easily as priests, as far as Raviathan knew. Both trained for years to become experts in the Chant, and to his mind, the only difference was how much metal a person carried on their person, but clearly this was another area he sorely lacked knowledge in. 

“Because the Chantry controls the lyrium trade,” Alistair said with a sourness that surprised Raviathan. 

“So? What does that matter to the templars?” 

“Lyrium isn’t just for mages. The Chantry gives lyrium to templars to sharpen their abilities. But who knows. Maybe it doesn’t even do that.” 

He hadn’t seen Alistair like this before. Angry, mournful, ridiculous, but there was a very deep rage here that he hadn’t expected. Raviathan felt like he was treading on dangerous ground. “But mages use it. For, uh, mana, like you said. Doesn’t it do the same for templars?” 

“It affects non-mages differently. It’s blue poison to any non-mage who hasn’t been trained, and even then it turns the brain to mush after a while. Older templars have to retire when their bodies can’t take the lyrium anymore, and it isn’t pretty. Gets to the point where they can’t feed themselves. But all templars have issues within a few weeks if they don’t get lyrium. Confusion, delusions, weepiness, loss of muscle control. Nightmares. Depends on how long you’ve been on it and how well you can fight off the need for more.” 

“Wait. You mean they addict you to lyrium?” Alistair may annoy him, but he didn’t deserve that fate. 

“Yes.” Alistair’s lips thinned as his voice turned resentful. “And they feel perfectly justified. Keeps all the little templars in place now, doesn’t it. Just in case they became a little too… sympathetic. Maybe a few get tired of killing teenagers who go through the Harrowing. Maybe they actually might like someone they’re suppose to be guarding but who they’re sworn to kill.” 

Raviathan’s jaw worked and he stared hard at the fire. Would Alistair still continue treating him as an equal if he knew? “Some of that may be true, Alistair, but there are some right monsters among the templars. They kill people who wanted nothing other than to be left alone. Like Morrigan and Flemeth. They’ve done nothing but help us, but templars would be only too willing to slaughter them like sheep. And then there’s the Dalish. You’ve seen how they live, always on the move, and the templars aren’t killing random wild mages, they’re going after the clans’ Keepers. Their leaders. That would be an act of war if the Dalish were treated like humans. Then there are those who go beyond killing. They enjoy it Alistair. Templars aren’t victims.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Raviathan shut up. His grief over Solyn’s death struggled to the surface like the dead, a grief buried but not burned away, never cleansed from his soul. All the sorrow he felt scraped up from inside, choked his throat like a skeletal hand. Now that he had a templar to talk to, Raviathan felt as if he was picking at an infected wound and couldn’t stop, even though he knew he was making the pain worse. Why had he no control over himself anymore? He chanced a glance at Alistair, afraid he had overstepped and given too much away. 

“Oh,” said Alistair as his eyes narrowed in anger, “and a templar has never lost their life to a blood mage?” He shook his head, putting his plate aside. 

“Okay,” said Raviathan. The effort to make his voice calm forced the muscles in his neck into wire-tight tension. “Blood mages are terrible. I’ll admit that. But you don’t think templars go too far? You don’t think there are those who take pleasure in killing mages? Mages don’t have a choice, no more than a person controls the color of their eyes. Templars choose. That’s the difference, Alistair. They may face some ugly choices, but they chose to do that.” 

Absently worrying at a hangnail, Alistair sighed. His voice took on that vulnerable quality it did at times, especially when he was feeling lost. “I never wanted to be a templar. I never really had much choice in the matter. I saw a Harrowing once. The girl was just about to turn seventeen and scared to death. When she took too long the templar in charge beheaded her.” 

Alistair bent forward then winced with a grunt before straightening, a hand pressed against his ribs. “I remember blood, so much blood, pooling on the stones.” He closed his eyes, his skin a few shades paler, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “It made me sick. I didn’t want any part of that, not ever. And the tranquil just started cleaning up, like it was nothing. Like it was nothing more than someone spilling soup in the kitchen.” 

The cords of Alistair’s neck stood taunt, and he kept his head lowered. “Some of them really believe in the Chantry’s laws and don’t care. They’re confident that they carry out the Maker’s justice. Some see it for what it is and try to act out of compassion, but they don’t usually last. It makes others numb, so they don’t feel. At all. Like they’re dead inside.” 

When Alistair gazed at the fire, Raviathan saw misery reflected in his eyes. “And others, the guilt eats them inside out so they hate everything. Some were just bullies and took it as a chance to indulge and push other templars to that way of thinking as well. Then add lyrium to it. Those who are sick of it want to stop… and… just can’t.” 

Maker damn it! He didn’t want to see the templars’ side. Rage was so much easier when the templars were all faceless monsters hiding behind helmets and Chantry righteousness. By Alistair’s own admission, the templars were monsters who could be as lacking in compassion as a snake eating a mouse. At least a snake killed for survival. 

If Alistair hadn’t admitted the failings of templars, Raviathan could blow him off as a Chantry sympathizer, but no. 

That didn’t excuse those so full of righteous fire that they hurt the weakest with no remorse, or the true monsters. The sadists. They hurt people. Not even lyrium addiction could excuse what they did to Solyn. Having sympathy for Alistair, letting his guard down, it was only going to bite him in the ass. He couldn’t trust this human. He couldn’t. 

He wouldn’t!

At Alistair’s silence, the old, intrusive thoughts that had plagued him nearly half his life battered at his brain, and with those thoughts all confusion about the templars fell back, pebbles washed away in a tide of invasive images. Raviathan couldn’t remember having gone without a woman for this long. Someone, anyone, to ease this tension. 

So far the one thing he really liked about living with humans was their willingness to take partners without the confines of a relationship. He briefly fantasized about holding a small pale breast with a pink aroused nipple peaking through his fingers, letting the nub roll down his tongue and hearing a woman’s panting arousal as he worked her wet, then pulling off her clothes, sometimes fully stripped, sometimes just enough to reach what he wanted. 

There was the anticipation, when he had them weak and ready to beg him, and just before they crested, burying himself in hard and deep. Wet, red flesh holding him tight. The euphoria of spilling himself inside their bodies, clutching them down to his pelvis as his mind went deliriously blank. The need was going to break him. 

With those thoughts came a familiar wash of self disgust that left him sick to his stomach. The thoughts died away, and he felt eviscerated. Maker damn his eyes. He had thought, had hoped, he was past this compulsion that had nearly cost him everything, his standing in the alienage, his father’s respect, his marriage. He had come precipitously close to becoming an outcast, yet he couldn’t stop. 

In that hollow desperation, his saving grace come to his mind. He was glad Nesiara was going to be married to someone better. Her life had been nothing but pain since Howe took over Highever. Maybe something would finally go right for the poor woman. 

The ache and disgust tightened in him, made his body feel pressurized as if crushed under a rock. He mentally shook himself, forcing his brain to concentrate. 

Huddled inward, Alistair sat on the rock next to him, his eyes glazed over as he stared at the fire. Raviathan turned over Alistair’s stories as he considered the man. What the templars said to recruits wouldn’t include the uglier version of events, of course, like their predilection for torture. The recruits would get horror stories to fuel their paranoia and force a divide, a narrative that didn’t allow for mage sympathy. More, they forced the inexperienced to be killers. If that was Alistair’s experience, Raviathan understood his gratitude towards Duncan. 

Was it possible that Alistair was a mage sympathizer? Raviathan nibbled at his lip. No, that idea was ridiculous considering the way he reacted to Morrigan and Flemeth. But that begged the question, what were Alistair’s motivations? Where did his sympathies lie? 

Don’t trust. Watch and learn. How does he react? Is the submissiveness a ploy? Was his joking manner a cover? Raviathan narrowed his eyes as he studied Alistair’s posture. Whatever the truth was, Alistair was neglecting Raviathan’s instructions.

“Sit straight,” Raviathan scolded him. “Have you been doing the deep breathing like I told you?” 

An abashed moue pulled at Alistair’s lips. “It hurts. A lot.” 

Raviathan narrowed his eyes, a look that caused Alistair to lean away. “We are in a forest with rain, rivers, and waterfalls filling the air with water. It’s freezing at night. Do you want to get pneumonia?” 

“No? I mean, no.” 

Instead of chiding further, Raviathan got up to remove Alistair’s armor. Here lay another aspect of martial knowledge that Raviathan remained ignorant in. He knew a bit about armor, mostly the leathers his mother favored for stealth and because leather was more affordable. She had told him the weak points on other forms, but those had been rusty scraps scrounged from Maker knew where. Squiring for Alistair and figuring out which buckles to undo and which to leave was its own education. 

Eyes closed, Alistair stood through the process without word or complaint. A flash of pain showed in the tightening of Alistair’s forehead or a grimace, but he stayed silent. Raviathan had to stand on the rock to get Alistair out of his shirt without having him bend over. Alistair shivered in the cold, his skin turning red and skin prickling, but again, remained silent and followed orders. 

If not for watching Leliana go through the process, Raviathan would have suspected Alistair liked being serviced as if he were a lord, treating his equals as lessers. However, he had seen the discomfort Alistair endured rather than enjoyed. More than anything, Alistair seemed ashamed to receive Leliana’s attentions. Part of his Chantry upbringing? 

The campfire obscured some of Alistair’s injuries with warm light, so Raviathan had to examine the bruising from inches away. He gently palpated the areas he knew were healing, making sure the ribs stayed in place, that the range of motion of Alistair’s arm remained consistent with the accelerated healing spells Raviathan had performed. Truth be told, Alistair healed quickly. 

“You’re doing well. If you want, I can make a painkiller to help you sleep tonight.” 

“That really bitter stuff?” Alistair’s face screwed up.

“Up to you if you want it.” 

At Alistair’s frowning nod, Raviathan started heating up water. A little honey would ease the bitterness, so Raviathan added a fingertip’s worth along with a few dried chamomile flowers. If Morrigan hadn’t decided to sleep away from the main camp, Raviathan would have cast another spell, but he could do that later while Alistair slept, as he had done for everyone in the party over the last few weeks. 

If he hadn’t needed to hide his healing spells, he would be able to direct the magical energy with more focus to the needed ligaments and muscles as well as help reduce swelling. Raviathan scowled at the warming tea, his lower lip between his teeth. His father had been the cautious one regarding Raviathan’s abilities, would have kept him from healing entirely. That caution was needed now, more than ever with humans and a templar as his constant companions, but that didn’t stop Raviathan’s conscience worrying at him. 

The fights Raviathan had with his father had never been able to stop him, not when Raviathan saw a person in pain. But he was healing family and kin, not using his powers around a templar. There was no help for it, and waiting for Alistair to show his true nature wasn’t reasonable. Considering the injuries the whole party was taking, Raviathan would have to get rid of Alistair.


	47. Eyes of Wolves - Mercy

Bright and clean, filled with sun and earth, the scent of the forest filled Leliana’s lungs, so different than the city she was used to. She took a brief moment to admire the bucolic countryside and birdsong, a sight she hadn’t seen since she first traveled from Ferelden as a child. The woodland scents were pretty but plain, nothing like the myriads of fine foods she was learning to enjoy, or the press of perfumed bodies covered in powders and fragrances, nor the more domestic smells of her childhood, horses and dogs, laundry, or garden flowers. The simple pleasure of the countryside that the nobles described had been one she had heard often but never appreciated until now. 

Another set of scents greeted her nose, and her lips turned up as warmth tinted her cheeks. The fragrance of supple leather, sun-heated skin, and perfume made from expensive ambergris and Antivan flowers that Leliana had no name for became stronger. Warmth pressed at her back, light hands caressing down her arms, encouraging her to position her bow. 

“Here, my dear. Your grip, like so.” 

At the feathery touch of her friend’s fingers on her own, Leliana’s breathing sharpened though she tried to hide it. She couldn’t give name to the feeling, the fantastic little fluttering that started in her stomach, oh but how she admired her mentor who teased those silly little butterflies into life. 

“Is this right, Marjolaine?” 

More than the instruction or perfecting her stance, she wanted Marjolaine’s praising purr in her ear. 

Lips grazed the side of her neck, and Leliana’s eyes fluttered closed. Yes, Marjolaine. This, right now, never too much, just enough to make her tighten and glory in this moment. Strange to long for these confusing moments, but oh how they warmed her and made her want for more. She cherished these few seconds, going over them again and again in her mind when she waited for sleep. She kept them close, a collection of dark secrets, like lightning bugs in a jar buzzing in her chest. 

Her arrow flew from her forgotten fingers. Leliana’s eyes opened wide in startelment. A deep animal mewl of pain sounded from further in the forest. The hunters who had been tracking the hart turned to look at her in surprise though their stylized wolf-like masks muted the men’s expressions. 

“I think you may have the luck of the day, mistress,” one said to her before they started tracking the animal. 

Stunned, Leliana mounted alongside Marjolaine though she felt as if she floated rather than rode. Trees blurred beside her as the horses cantered leisurely after the hunters. With a wild laugh, Marjolaine kicked her horse into a fast gallop once they passed a thicket. “Come, my dear! Let us see what your luck has found!” 

They followed the blood trail, Marjolaine tracking with unnerving expertise. The hart staggered. A piteous mewl escaped as the hart tried to run with Leliana’s arrow sticking out from behind its shoulder. Blood stained the deer’s side, a dull, wet shine where the sun touched past tree dappled light. 

Leliana stared at the animal then back to Marjolaine. 

“Excellent, Leliana. And on your first hunt, too,” she said, her voice all warmth and kindness. “Time has come that you must kill it.” 

They dismounted close by. The hunters ringed the animal from a distance but let the women proceed now that the hart was trapped. The animal sank to his knees in defeat. 

The blood. Leliana drew near, could see the individual hairs of the hart’s short coat. She had seen stuffed animal trophies, but never one so close. Not one still breathing. It kicked as she approached. Leliana let out a shout and backed away, her fisted hands to her mouth. The hart looked at her, soft eyes, black and liquid and full of panic and pain. 

“Leliana.” The kindness was gone. A voice as sharp as the dagger in Leliana’s hand. “Leliana, you must. Kill it now.”

“No, Marjolaine. I can’t.” At the thin, disapproving line of her friend’s lips, Leliana quailed inside. 

“This animal will die. You can not stop this, even if you wanted to.” 

I can’t. “Please.” Her voice wavered. 

Eyes tight with disapproval, her mentor moved gracefully around the hart, as practiced a hunter as any wolf. She grabbed one antler, twisted the animal’s head to expose it’s neck, and drew her blade across, all in one quick motion. “Never delay the inevitable. If you can strike, strike.” 

The blade flashed in the sun where the blood did not cover steel. 

Hunters approached, their masks jovial wolf grins. “Mistress. You are of course welcome.” 

One bowed to her, another opening an ornate door set between two trees. Their hunters’ livery shone with silk rather than leather, the cut much finer. “Lady Touraine is grateful for your company.” 

The doors opened to a formal garden filled with flowering trees and feminine statues framing a marble patio. Settees with soft pillows, and slender, ornate tables centered around an intimate area for performance. 

“These salons of hers are always such an amusement.” Marjolaine took Leliana’s arm in hers, an act so graceful in its naturalness, most would swear the women had been friends for decades. “Truly, my dear, you are socializing with the very best of society. Be on your manners and remember to watch.” 

“Of course.” Leliana said the words with a smile and subtle caress of their hands knowing the gesture would please her mentor. Anything to have that smile turned in her direction. She starved for that smile the way flowers begged the sun for spring. 

They sat with the other women, the fashions thankfully more subdued for the salon than would be for a ball, a relief from a heated afternoon. Light silks and lace in creams and pastels reigned the fashion of this summer. Phoenix feathers adorned small caps, pearls shone on gowns, and small crystals glittered in patterns along bodices. The masks consisted of finely painted porcelain illustrating summer scenes, flowers and birds tangled in vines, gold-touched here and there for effect. As Marjolaine had said, to display, but not be ostentatious. 

A band of minstrels from Antiva gave a demonstration of exotic musical instruments. One movement that was both string and percussion fascinated her so that she did not pay attention to the banal conversations as the rest continued to chat.

Talk consisted of fashion, as usual, the shallowness of the discussion quickly boring Leliana, who had heard the same comments at a dozen different gatherings. The glittering face powder that had been all the rage a few years ago seemed to be making a resurgence by the most daring of young ladies, but whether brave or foolhardy remained a contentious debate between the noblewomen. More than one debutante bore scarring when the glitter had caught fire when too near a candle thereby ruining her marketability. As alluring as many thought the glittering powder was, what sensible lady would chance damage to her skin?

A young elf took stage, a man with a boyish face and oddly long limbs. When he opened his mouth, a hush fell. A sound so pure, high but stronger and more refined than any child’s, rang out clear and sharp as crystal. 

“A castrato?” Lady Chartres, a nervous woman of middling age, exclaimed. “But I thought Celene banned them.”

An indulgent if aloof smile graced Lady Touraine’s wrinkled lips. Her voice spoke of long hours of elocution lessons designed for refinement and to ensure behavior alone set her apart from the lower classes as much as her fortune. “Of course she did. But he is from Antiva where such practices are allowed. At least some nations still recognize that these sacrifices need to be continued for the betterment of culture. Terrible that we must import them from Antiva though. Orlais will surely sink into barbarism if this continues, but I am confident Celene will change her views. In time.” 

“Indeed,” Marjolaine said. “For the good of Orlais.” 

Lady Touraine’s smile turned sly as she reached for her teacup. “Fine as the Antivan castrato is, Orlais has its own jewels.” 

The castrato’s voice never faltered from the sweet melody. After three songs, he bowed to polite applause then made his exit. 

Marjolaine led Leliana over to Lady Touraine once everyone rose to mingle. Her mentor tisked. “A fine salon, my dear Antoinette. Beautiful as always, but Guillemette’s shoes! What a horror.” 

“So dark. Not at all with the fashion.” The older dame’s lips pursed in a web of hard lines. “How did she think she would get away with that display? Here you are, my dear.” Only Leliana’s proximity allowed her to see a small box pass hands. “I do hope you enjoyed the singer. He’ll be leaving back for Antiva this evening.” 

“Salut.” 

“Lady Montiverde seems rather eager to marry Count Vessinary.” 

Marjolaine gave an elegant one shouldered shrug. “Very eager. If she thought glitterpowder would make her more alluring to the Count, she might overcome her suspicions to try it.” 

“A shame,” Lady Touraine said with a cold smile, her eyes glittering darkly behind her mask. 

Guided past false smiles and pretty manners, Leliana followed Marjolaine out of the sunny parlor and through a wide hallway, empty save for a few refugees from the ball seeking their own furtive pleasures. Moonlight mixed with firelight on the polished marble floor. Music from the ball drifted to the empty hall with the invisible presence of thick perfume. Marjolaine, her hair shining through the veils attached to her mask, laughed as she twirled Leliana about. “You did well tonight, my dear.” 

Lips sweetened with wine and peach-glazed cakes grazed Leliana’s neck, seeming to ignite the wine coursing through Leliana’s blood. Oh, more. Not for the first time, she wanted more. She would give anything, and now her former fears were nothing. Marjolaine could lay claim to all of her. 

A hand squeezed her breast, a fingernail scraping over her nipple, each pass tightening her body. “You pleased me tonight, my sweet.” 

It had been easy. After all the practice, after battling nerves, the deed had been almost anti-climatic. The slip of powder from a little, ornate Antivan box into some wine. She even smiled at Guillemette when the girl sipped from the blood red drink. Not a word said from anyone, not even a suspicious glance. In the end, it had been easy. 

Marjolaine swirled her, guided her through the dance, Leliana barely aware of anything until a breeze chilled her. They stood on a balcony, her mentor’s kisses sliding down her neck. A wicked grin and dark eyes, and Marjolaine sunk down. Some small part of Leliana wondered what her mentor was up to, but with the heat and wine, she didn’t care. Marjolaine could do anything. 

Fabric tugged from under her corset. Nails, gently scratching, ran down the bare skin of her backside and thighs. Nibbles and licks drowned Leliana’s senses. Below, she saw Marjolaine’s dress peeking out from under her own. 

In the corner, Guillemette lay on her side, red spittle flecking colorless lips. “You did this to me.” 

Guillemette’s eyes, once a pale brown, turned on her, dark. So liquid. Like an endless pool. Soft as a final breath. Like going to sleep. 

“Her shoes,” Marjolaine said, her voice next to Leliana’s ear while her tongue slid between her legs. “Dark to hide the stains of her sins.” 

“Yes,” Leliana whispered, one leg over Marjolaine’s shoulder. Her tender skin felt the rough lace of Marjolaine’s dress, each hard bead sewn into the embroidery, and the slippery silk between them. 

“You killed me.” An arrow stuck out of Guilemette’s side. Her wet blood shown in the moonlight. A dark pool to drown in. 

“You were too stupid to play the Game, my dear.” Marjolaine’s teeth raked along the back of Leliana’s neck. 

“Yes.” Anything for you, my love. 

Marjolaine’s teeth sunk into Leliana’s neck, sharp fangs, a penetration Leliana welcomed. Another pair of teeth sank into her sex. 

Leliana threw her head back, the world spinning in a haze around her. Blood pumped with her pulse, aching so deliciously. Her love had teased her for years now, making her want more and more, sucking her into a whirlpool, one with Marjolaine as its center. Helpless to fight, only to flow along with the currents as she was sucked deeper in, until everything in her life became the currents that brought her to Marjolaine. Unstoppable as death. 

The wolves bit her neck, her legs, her belly. Each penetration of teeth as sweet as Marjolaine’s tongue. Sweet with song, sweet with peaches, sweet with cyanide. 

Her blood spread. A pool to drown in. 

Leliana smiled as the wolves tore her apart. 

“Leliana!” 

The wolves. 

“Leliana, wake up!” The words, panicked, hissed at her. A hand on her shoulder, shaking her. 

She blinked, disoriented. Trees. The smell of trees. A wounded hart. Blood and teeth. 

Unreleased, her sex hummed from the dream in a mind-stealing ache. 

Leliana winced at the sun’s light penetrating through the forest canopy, the dream still heavy on her, to see Alistair. “One of the werewolves,” he whispered. Leliana jolted, but Alistair’s hand on her arm kept her down. “Easy. It’s not attacking. Yet.” 

Her gut clenched at the idea of another attack. She had felt pain before, a great deal of it, but since joining the two Wardens, pain seemed to stalk them as insistently as wolves. She shook her head to clear it, but moved slowly so as not to attract attention. Leaves scattered the afternoon sun. Leliana put together the pieces of events, her mind still confused by the dream. They decided to nap since they all slept poorly the night before. Sleep was never restful in this cursed forest. 

The werewolf grunted at the edge of the clearing. Raviathan was nearest to the beast, ten paces away. Venger whined behind him. Sten and Morrigan stood another ten paces back, enough to jump into a fight if they were needed. Leliana rose slowly to her feet, bow in hand, muscles readying for action. 

“Rav wants to talk to it,” Alistair whispered. “I think it’s a trap, so be on guard.” 

“Please.” The werewolf’s growl of a voice wavered in pain. 

“You aren’t with the others?” Raviathan asked. 

“Swiftrunner? He would have me, but I am not. Please, the pain!” The werewolf’s muscles spasmed, the ripples visible even under its thick fur. 

Leliana couldn’t see Rav’s expression, but he held up a hand for the others to wait. 

“This is foolish,” Sten hissed. 

Raviathan sent a glare over his shoulder, a warning not to cross his orders. Hands out to show peaceful intentions, he neared the werewolf one cautious step at a time. “How do we find Witherfang? Surely you know.” 

The werewolf held herself tight, a long stream of saliva dripping from her open jaw. “Please! The pain. Like fire in my blood!” 

The howl that came from the creature echoed inside Leliana like the twist of a knife. Dear Maker, the agony she must be in. The werewolf’s claws scraped deep furrows in the ground. Instantly, Leliana felt a deep pity for the creature. 

“Be calm. Breathe.” Raviathan rested a hand on the werewolf’s neck, his fingers burrowing deep into her scruff. “Shh. Your name?”

“Danyla.” 

“Breathe, Danyla. You have a husband, yes?” 

“Athras, my love.” Muscles stilling, she started to pant.

“And you have borne children. You know pain.” 

“Not like this.” Head bowed, her voice turned into a whine. “To bring life. It was worth the pain.” 

“Endure, Danyla. Why did you seek us?”

“Please. End me. I can’t… I can’t live. The pain!” She lay on her side, much as the hart had, knowing death would near. Raviathan knelt next to her with one hand massaging her neck. 

If you can strike, strike. 

Maker, why is he doing this? Kill her. Let her pain be at an end. She is begging you. And you force her to answer questions? This leader was not turning out to be the hope her dream prophesied, not when he made Marjolaine appear merciful in comparison. 

“Are the others in pain like this all the time?”

“The Lady of the Forest. She helps them. Always pain. Always rage until it beats the mind, breaks us beyond thinking. But she helps us remember. Ourselves.” 

“Would she help you?” 

“Y-yes. I can not.” Her panting increased, each accompanied by a thin whine as if crying. “I can’t… not that life. I can’t be this way. I’m an elf! I can’t…” 

“Danyla, listen to me. We will find some way to end the curse.” 

“You will kill the Lady. Zathrian. I know he asks it.” 

Raviathan frowned. “We don’t seek the Lady. Only Witherfang.” 

“No!” The werewolf cried in distress. “You do not understand. Witherfang is our only hope, our sanity.” She howled mournfully. “I would… but the pain. So tired of the pain.” 

“Listen, listen to me. Focus on me. Danyla, you will not leave Athras a widow. You will not leave your children without a mother. Not yet. A little longer. For them. We will end this, and you will go back to them.” 

The werewolf whimpered, her body turning so she lay partially on her back. Her legs twitched, and she uttered a low howl. “Warm. Like fire. Like the Lady, but she is cool, like water.” 

“Shh, Danyla.” 

“Please. The Lady.” 

“How do we find the Lady?” 

The werewolf mewled, fully showing her belly as Raviathan stroked the sides of her neck. This thumbs rubbed up and down on either side of her windpipe. “Do not kill her.” 

“I won’t, Danyla.” 

A sigh, the wounded asking for release only to endure more. “Speak with the Lady. All is not as Zathrian claims. And I will speak with the others.” 

“Danyla, How do we find her?” 

“I dare not say more. The others will kill me as a traitor.” 

Raviathan bowed his head in thought. The werewolf whimpered, and he resumed stroking her neck. 

“Please. If I do not live. Tell Athras I love him.” 

Raviathan’s fingers slid up to grip her head, forcing her to look at him. Understanding passed between them. Leliana felt that though she could not name it. “You will tell him yourself. You hold on to that with every breath. Fix it in your mind.” 

The werewolf whimpered and licked his arm. 

“Go.” 

Once he released her, her body convulsed in pain, a howl silencing the forest. She flipped violently to her feet and vanished into the forest. 

Raviathan remained on his knees, already deep in thought. A nudge on his arm from Venger brought a brief smile, and he scratched the dog’s ears. “Morrigan, let’s talk.”

~o~O~o~

“What are your thoughts?”

Morrigan cocked her head, a mimicry of her raven habits. “I’d suggest continuing on our present quest, but the werewolves are proving hard to kill.” 

“Not that.” Raviathan sometimes wondered if the witch was honest in her opinions or being contrary for fun. “This curse. Zathrian has been alive hundreds of years. The clan says he’s learned the secret of our ancestors’ long lives, but this curse has more twists to it.” 

“So you think he has extended his life in unnatural ways. Well, Mother has.” 

Flemeth remained an utter mystery in so many ways, but if she was the Flemeth of legend, only she could answer, and then in riddles that gave no answer. Though a curiosity, she was not Raviathan’s concern at present. “We have no clear knowledge of when this werewolf curse began, but stories of them go back a thousand years or more. It’s possible it’s another malignant spirit, a powerful one, resurfaced.” 

“You sound as if you have doubts.” 

“Who is this Lady of the Forest? And what’s her connection to Witherfang?” 

Raviathan nibbled his lower lip. Zathrian had lied. The rumors in the Dalish camp were proving true, of hunters turning into the beasts as the Dalish feared. A lie of compassion? To keep the others safe so as not to seek out their kin, as Athras would? A more sinister thought would be that Zathrian wanted the rest of the Dalish to be able to kill without hesitation, but that could also be to save them torment at having to end their loved one’s life or endangering their own in not acting. The werewolves were so fast. Any hesitation would bring death. 

More than once Raviathan had seen the truth behind Valendrian’s manipulations, actions his hahren used to help protect the alienage elves from all sorts of trouble. How much of Zathrian’s actions to forgive and how much to be cautious of? 

“Must they be connected?” Morrigan crossed her arms over her chest.

“From the way Danyla spoke, I’d say definitely. This Lady of the Forest helps them as does Witherfang. Are they spirits working in concert?” 

Morrigan sat on the log next to him. “Of this, I could not say. I wonder though, is this spirit a malignant one if it is helping the werewolves with their rage?” 

Leaning forward to rest his forearms on his legs, Raviathan frowned. “Wolves are terrors. They attack farms and animals, wandering travelers, succumb to the blight more easily than almost any other animal for a reason. There are some romanticized stories of Calenhad, but that’s more a metaphor for ferocity. I can’t imagine a benign spirit possessing a wolf.” 

“Imagine or not, clearly the werewolves are not unthinking, and these spirits seem the cause.” 

“That doesn’t mean it’s not malignant. When the werewolves are able to reason, they attack with greater focus, an enemy made worse.” 

Morrigan pondered for a minute before replying. “You mention Zathrian, and your mind moves to the curse. You think they are connected?” 

When she said the words, Raviathan couldn’t ignore his doubts any longer. “Yes.” 

“There is no evidence of that.” 

“I know.” 

Nodding to herself, Morrigan said, “Good that you are not blind.” 

At least he wasn’t alone in his suspicions. “What do you know of curses?”

“A bit, but not much that would be helpful in this case or that you have not already surmised.” 

“More than I then. I’m sure my teacher knew some, but she didn’t think that avenue of study was one I should pursue.” 

Morrigan laughed. “Indeed. My thoughts are that Flemeth loathed to pass along such information in the chance it could be used against her at some point.” 

Though for different reasons, both of their educations lacked in this field. Back to the search then, now with even more multiple moving targets. Joy.

~o~O~o~

Raviathan touched his jaw, steeling himself against the pain. The whole side of his face felt swollen. Between his magic and healing skills, he didn’t think he had any broken bones.

“I’m beginning to hate trees.” 

For once, Raviathan agreed with Alistair. The armor he had gotten from the Dalish was in ruins. Damn this cursed place. For the first time in his life, he had armor that fit him, actually fit for once! No more padding out shin guards, or having odd hooks from ill fitted pieces, or having to defend from painful chafing. Granted, the armor hadn’t been made for him, not like a proper suit, but this armor at least matched his size. Shems had no idea what it was like being the odd one out. 

Between bears, werewolves, blight wolves, trees, undead, and the pleasant river of doom, his armor was little more than rags that looked like they had once been leather. The long, bloody scratches the tree limb had scraped in his left leg were healed, but that bit of armor would be consigned to the necropolis that was this forest. 

He wandered away from the others, mainly to heal without any attention, but also to lick his bruised ego. 

“Don’t go far,” Alistair called. 

Raviathan raised a hand to show he heard. Maker, he was shit as a leader. This whole forest was one fiasco after another. Not that he expected this to be easy, but they were all getting torn apart on a regular basis. Never before had he felt constant physical pain like this. His mother’s training was stringent, leaving him with bruises and aching muscles for days, but he never had injuries like this. 

Well, his skill as a healer was growing by leaps and bounds, cold comfort that. 

Maker, he was so out of his element. Unbidden, he kept hearing a phrase turn over and over in his head, ‘Served up to the wolves.’ Where had he heard that? ‘Served up to the wolves.’ 

“Wanderer Far, pardon me, but what creature doth thou be?” 

Raviathan was on his feet with sword and dagger in hand before two words had been uttered. The rest hurried over as much as bruised and strained muscles allowed. 

Not humanoid. That’s all Raviathan knew. Too deep, too rough, but not in the growling scratch the werewolves had, as if forcing words from a throat that was never meant to do more than snarl. This… Maker, he had never heard the like. It resembled the howl of wind through leaves, but the voice had a power to it.

“Who spoke?” 

“It is I whose leaves give thou humble shade, who lives between betwixt the Fade. I take sun’s glory as the day shines long, and give shelter to those who bring’eth song. It is I whose roots in the earth grow deep, who feels the sky when she doth weep. Thou need not be afraid of me, for I am the oak, the Elder tree.” 

Well if that didn’t beat all. Raviathan blinked at the tree a moment, his mouth open, before collecting himself. “You… aren’t attacking us.” 

The tree swayed reminding Raviathan of the Chasind warriors, their strange stillness and sways, how they mimicked so well the subtle shifts of the forest. 

“You speak of my kin filled with rage, souls whose freedom turned to cage. Beyond the Veil this world shone bright, now mad they are and filled with spite. Fear me not, Wandering Friend, angry was I but my spirit did wend. Furor at my state decreased, and now am filled with perfect peace. But what of thee, Wandering Friend, what doth thou be?”

“Um. I’m a Grey Warden.”

“The name this being I would know for true, thou claim’est be a defender of hue?” 

A laugh startled out of Raviathan. After all this pain and horror, and he talked to a tree? Maker, no one would believe him back in the alienage. Leliana came to his side, her lips twitching in suppressed giggles. “I would have never thought.” 

“Uh, no,” Raviathan said to the tree. “It’s a title for those who fight the blight, the darkness that comes from underground and the south. As for me, I’m an elf.”

“Yes, the ancient blood runs in thee, of magic and life linked in key. It was elves who first grew this land, whose blood was shed in the final stand. Much lost to only lore, scattered remains from a forgotten war.” 

A breath caught in Raviathan. A painful hope lit in his chest. “Do you know what happened here? What happened to the ancient elves?” 

“I can only speak as one sole tree, not enough but enough for me. What happened to your ancient kin, is lost to what might have been.” 

Raviathan’s shoulders sagged a fraction. This tree, a wonder in itself, was still only a tree and had limits to what it could know.

“Sorrow to you whose blood is fire, I can not give what you desire.” 

Blood is fire? Just what did this tree know? It had no eyes, no ears he could discern. Raviathan would have questioned it further but for the templar at his back.

“Elder tree? Do you know the Lady of the Forest?” 

The tree made a thoughtful sound. “This title sounds most arcane, but I know not of any reign.” 

Hmm, what would a tree know? Raviathan resisted the urge to shake his head at his own stupidity. Of course he wasn’t talking to a tree, but to a spirit. “What can you tell me of this forest?”

“The ancient elves from north they roam, long ago found this their home. What happened I can not tell, blood and war and then they fell. So much death rent the Veil, is all I know of that lost tale. Before the spirits took corpse and tree, there was one who wandered free. A guardian of land and life, she hid the weak from death and strife. Where she went is a mystery, lost is she to history. Perhaps the weres may comprehend, for the day they came was at her end.” 

Raviathan and Morrigan shared a look. That was too much of a coincidence. “Can you tell me where the werewolves are?” 

“The center of the forest is where they den, through twists of trail, tree, and glen. They hide in places overgrown, a lost ruin of root and stone. The forest will protect their path, from those who would vent their wrath.”  
Vent their wrath. That must refer to the elves. Could the werewolves have other enemies as well? 

“So how do we find them?” 

“If you are willing, Wandering Friend, a key I have that I will lend. But I have a quest of thee, a boon to those who find my seed.” 

Raviathan blinked. “Your seed?” 

“A thief by morning’s light came and stole, my heart—my acorn—half my soul. You think this only a token, without my acorn I am broken. Bereft and I am lost, refuse this aid and death my cost.” 

“The poor tree,” Leliana said. “Surely we can help… him… it.” 

“Another pointless quest,” Sten muttered. 

“Who is this thief?” Raviathan asked.

“A hermit of demented mien, his magic filled with spells obscene. To the eastern hills he has fled, where there lurks death and dread.” 

“Death and dread? Sounds like fun,” Alistair said. “Hey, why do you only speak in rhyme?” 

“Why doth thou not speak in rhyme, mundane words have no chime. Perhaps a poet’s soul rests in me, does that make me a poet tree?”

“Ha. Haha!” Alistair’s laugh continued to grow. “Poetry! I get it.” 

The tree seemed quite pleased, as pleased as a tree could seem. “A jibe, a jest, to entertain my guest.” 

After agreeing, they said their goodbyes to the tree before heading east. Raviathan felt the spirit had done their flagging hearts much good, one positive experience after getting beaten and battered from all sides.

~o~O~o~

“That must be him. Thank you, Morrigan.”

The witch responded with a nod. 

While Raviathan was thankful for Morrigan’s scouting ability as a bird, he envied the spell that continued to elude him. “Alistair?” 

“Er… hrm?” 

Oh for… “This isn’t the time to daydream,” Raviathan snapped. 

“I wasn’t…” Alistair sighed. “What is it?” 

Raviathan’s lips thinned as he bit back a curse. No wonder they kept getting as hurt as they did. He didn’t try to keep the impatience from his voice. “We know the hermit is a mage. What can you do if he casts magic? Can you keep your templar abilities from affecting Morrigan, and how?” 

“Oh… um.” 

Raviathan waited with increasing frustration as the templar gathered his wits. They couldn’t all be this incompetent otherwise Solyn would still be alive. 

“Okay, so if I strike a mage, that can drain his mana. If he casts a harmful spell, like something that makes you sleepy or weak, I can clear that up. Um, assuming I’m not affected as well. That ability doesn’t work with every spell, not with something that’s already been cast and finished. 

“It’s a bit complicated how it affects an enemy but not a friend. Has to do with sympathetic intentions. Magic is about intent, right? When a mage casts a spell, it’s… well it’s drawing on Fade energy, so it’s about what the mage wants. If a mage wants to make his enemies sleep, he… or she… well, they focus their spell on people who want to do them harm. Intent. Not all spells need intent. A fireball will cook everyone, but other spells specify a target or group. What I do is the same. So Morrigan will be fine and her spells undamaged.” 

Raviathan blinked at the templar. That was a much more intelligent answer than he expected given that Alistair thought he was talking to someone with no experience. “Alright. Morrigan, you look for an acorn as a bird. Alistair, be ready if he casts a spell. Otherwise, we’ll see if and how long we can distract him. Morrigan, if you find it, come back here. If not, circle the other direction. Everyone clear on the plan?” 

Nods greeted him. 

The smell of a long unwashed human first assaulted him. Nothing else had quite the same smell, pungent and sour, though Sten could be similar given enough time without water to bathe. Raviathan wondered, not for the first time, why in the Maker’s name shems considered elves dirty. Without washing, elves tended to smell like overripe fruit, a sort of sour sweet with a bit of dark spice. Surprisingly, he noticed Alistair smelled a bit like frankincense after a week without a bath. 

The area seemed to be part of a ruin reclaimed by the forest. Two crumbling walls remained giving a shadow impression of the room that had once existed here. Fragments of more walls stood far off the trail. A small fire centered the camp, but Raviathan saw no tent or bedroll or any other sign of home, only a wooden stump.  
Far beyond the rise and through twists of the path, Raviathan could just make out more of the ruins though the extent and condition remained hidden behind old growth. The Elder Tree said the werewolves made their den in some ruins, but Raviathan didn’t think he would be lucky enough to find them so easily. 

Detritus of all sorts littered the hermit’s camp: a pile of bones, bits of material, inedible scraps from meals, and the smell. That puddle… couldn’t be. Did the hermit not bother going into the woods let alone use a latrine? 

Disgusting didn’t begin to describe the scene. 

“Here! Who's there?” 

“Greetings,” Raviathan said while keeping his hands far from his weapons. “We’re travelers.” 

“Travelers? Travelers!” The hermit, a man as well kept as his camp, started punching the air. “Who are you?” 

“I’m Rav.” 

“No, no, no!” The man marched up to Raviathan, his pointing finger leading the way. “You can’t just answer.” 

“I can’t?” Oh Maker, Morrigan, please hurry. 

The shaggy human’s teeth had yellow stains under a coating of green fuzz. Raviathan couldn’t tell how old the man was. He could be thirty to sixty with his leathery, lined skin, but how much of that was age and how much sweat and dirt, only a good day’s worth of bathing would uncover. The hermit twitched when a flea crossed his cheek.

“No! It has to be a game.” 

“A game?” Was this shem born damaged or had something happened to cause this? “Sure. Games are fun, right?” 

“Fun? Fun!?” The shem jumped so that he faced the raven on the stump. He flapped his arms and bounced from foot to foot. “Caw! Caw! Shoo you, bird! Caw!” 

Morrigan fluttered away to appease the hermit but landed only five paces away. 

“A game,” Raviathan said. He inched to the side so that the hermit’s back would be to the stump when they talked. “What are the rules?” 

“Rules?!” The hermit screamed. “Yes, need rules,” he muttered. “One question you, one question me.” 

They needed to keep the man’s attention, and sanity wasn’t going to do the trick. “You asked a question, so it’s my turn.” 

“Yes, yes, yes.” The hermit wrung his hands, head down. 

Well, he could try to see what information the hermit had. “Where are the werewolves?” 

“What? What! Who sent you? Whooo sent you?” 

“You haven’t answered my question yet.” 

The hermit marched up to Raviathan who stepped back rather than be too close. The hermit raised his fists, but Raviathan didn’t react, only watched. 

“Gah!” The hermit turned around three times before cocking his head at Raviathan. “Where do weres live? In the heart or in the head?”

Raviathan had to blink at all the weirdness his life had taken. “Did you just answer my question with a question?”  
“Did I?”

“Are you mocking me?” Raviathan couldn’t even be angry if that were the case.

“Does it sound like I’m mocking you?”

Oh what in the Maker’s name was this? “Do you tend to mock travelers?”

“Are you a traveler?”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Why do you mock travelers?”

“Is that what I’m doing?” The hermit’s cheek twitched with his glee. 

“But where are the weres?” Raviathan shot Leliana a look. Out of all of them, she might be able to help distract the hermit. 

“Wolves, wolves, where are the werewolves,” the hermit muttered. “In a den, underground, in a ruin, forest bound. No paths, no tracks, no paws, no trails, only tales and tails.” The hermit demonstrated the last by wiggling his behind. 

Frowning, Raviathan wondered about the riddles and rhymes that marked the forest as much as the trees. 

“My turn!” The hermit danced from one foot to the other. 

“Go on.” 

“Where are you from?” 

“Denerim.” 

“Lies!” The hermit shook his fists. “Don’t don’t don’t lie!” 

“I’m… not?” He glared at Leliana, a silent plea for help. 

“Um, I would like to play,” she said as she stepped near him. “Do I get a question?” 

Sten watched the whole thing with his usual glower while Alistair blinked, wide eyed. Venger pawed at the ground, probably looking for a good bone to chew on. Maker, I hope it’s not humanoid. Morrigan flapped about the bones but seemed to be having little luck. 

The hermit glared at Leliana suspiciously. He ended up petting his hair in an odd self-comforting gesture. “Questions.” 

“Do you like stories?” 

“Stories?” 

“Yes!” Leliana seemed warmed by the idea and launched into a tale about a mischievous rabbit who caused his family to worry. A common child’s tale, but it kept the hermit more or less focused on them and not Morrigan. If the hermit actually liked the story, Raviathan couldn’t say. He rocked from side to side, his head resting against a fist. 

“Caw! Caw! Caw!” 

Leliana trailed off as the hermit screamed at Morrigan and flapped his arms at her. She fluttered away a few paces, then a few more as the hermit ran at her. Raviathan nodded and made shooing gestures for her to lead him off. Her feathers bristled in annoyance, but she continued to hop and fly just far enough to keep the hermit after her. 

“Everyone, look around.” 

Sten didn’t move from his position, only glared at different spots of the camp. Raviathan and Alistair peered through the bone and refuse piles, toeing away bones or using a stick on more squishy fare. Leliana examined the stump before reaching inside a hollow. A yelp escaped her throat, but she brought her hand out with a triumphant smile. 

“Got it!” 

“No! Thief, thief, thief!” The hermit returned, his eyes wide and wild. He cursed at them, jumping up and down, and then Raviathan saw the telltale marks of magic slipping from the madman’s hands. Lava bubbled in one corner, the bones spiraled in a whirlwind, and the pile of refuse jiggled as it rose up. 

“Oh, gross,” Alistair said. “I am not fighting that.” 

“He’s a mage, Alistair! Do your templar thing at him.” 

“Right, right.” 

Alistair ran over only to be swept up by a mighty wind, arms windmilling as he was tossed head over teakettle and carried off to the thick undergrowth. Leliana’s arrows likewise flew far from their target. 

The lava rose, took shape. Raviathan didn’t quite know how to fight it. Did steel work against fire? Would he end up with a melted weapon? Two points of fire, so hot they glowed white, formed in the face of the demon. They stared at each other for a frozen second, a heartbeat that slipped out of time. In that second Raviathan’s whole world became white fire.

~o~O~o~

Where was Alistair? Or Morrigan? Leliana found no trace of the two.

Bones crunched under Sten’s sword, breaking the construct bit by bit, but the thing loomed over him. Blood coated Sten from a dozen cuts of sharp bone. Venger did what he could to worry at the bone construct, a battle made for the dog. 

The hermit continued to cast spells, but Leliana stopped firing at him, no point with all that wind. Changing targets, Leliana’s first shot flew through the bones without a hit. The growling roar of a demon from behind her made a shiver crawl up her spine. Preparing for some horror’s attack, she turned. 

Not the demon. Raviathan growled and roared like a wild thing, his blades slashing into the fire demon in a brutal onslaught, the blades glowing red. Their fight was more like the savaging of two dogs, teeth and fury and ugly in its viciousness. 

She didn’t dare risk a shot, not into that storm. The demon raked its long, burning claws down Raviathan’s back, but the elf seemed not to notice as he hacked into the thing, his teeth bared as his guttural growling continued. 

The wind died so suddenly, Leliana staggered in its absence. Taking the opportunity, she fired at the hermit encased in ice. Three more arrows finished the hedge mage. 

When Leliana tried to run to get into better position, she nearly fell. Her feet weren’t moving. Looking down, she saw her boots were encased in a sick sludge. No, the smell, it couldn’t be. 

“ _My shoes_!” She screamed, genuine panic taking the place of battle nerves. “Maker, no! Not my shoes!” She fired arrow after arrow at the ground not sure what was monster and what was earth. She could make out solid little bits… oh Maker no. Once her shrieks started, she couldn’t get them to stop. 

Burning waste steamed, the scent filling the small valley. Raviathan’s heated blades hacked at the waste puddle. It shivered and sludged as it tried to escape the blades. 

“What is this?” Leliana cried. Alistair was by her side doing what he could to help her extricate from the sucking sludge while trying to stay as far away as possible. His face scrunched up in misery from the stench. 

Between a final tug of her legs and a pull at her arm, Leliana extracted her feet from the ruined boots. Oh Maker why! They hadn’t been her favorite shoes, but at least they had been well-made and warm. The poor boots slumped in the sludge pile, slowly sinking in the morass. Alistair released her elbow after pushing her behind him. 

“Can’t you do anything?” Raviathan called. 

“It’s already been summoned, so there’s no magic to dispel. Have to kill it.” 

At least the elf was back to being himself again. Leliana couldn’t say what scared her more, the monsters or Raviathan when he had battled that fire demon. 

The sludge pile rose up into a tall mound, its smell all the worse. Leliana tried to keep from vomiting, and by the green tinge to Alistair’s face, she wasn’t the only one. 

“It ate my shoes!” Tears ran down Leliana’s cheeks. She took aim and fired. “Kill the blasted thing!” 

A deathly moan came from her right. She looked over to see the bone monster towering above them. Venger whipped his head back and forth, further unbalancing the monster, then ran off with an elk sized thigh bone in his mouth. 

“Oh no no no no,” Alistair said under his breath, his face horror stricken as he realized what was about to happen.

The pale light of a spirit faded away from the skull’s eye sockets. Slowly, bones creaking, the looming bone pile started to topple. The walls ruins blocked off Raviathan’s escape, so he dove to the ground under the scant cover of the remaining unspelled bones. Alistair turned and ran for the forest, his bulk keeping him from gaining speed quickly enough. On the other side of the clearing, Sten took a running leap into the bushes. 

The toppling bones killed the spirit animating the waste pile, its soft corporal form exploding in all directions.

~o~O~o~

“A stink, a stench, an odoriferous blight, perchance hath thee bathed in shite?”

“We have your acorn,” Raviathan said through his clenched teeth. It didn’t help that he could tell the tree was laughing by the way the leaves shook.  
No amount of scrubbing could get the smell or stains off Leliana’s boots. Her mouth turned in a pout that would make the most spoiled five year old princess proud. Raviathan and Alistair fared better, but not by much. Raviathan felt his back crawl every time he thought of his ruined armor and clothes. 

“Wandering Friend, your achievement most excellent, my thanks is triple for battling excrement.” 

Raviathan sighed and took the offered branch.


	48. Eyes of Wolves - Separated

“Rav!” Zacky called out in distress.

Raviathan put Justen down with a quick kiss on his little cousin’s head. Zacky cried out again, his tears evident in voice. Children ran around him as they played their games. Shining hair and bright eyes contrasted with the muted colors of their clothes and the mud-covered misery around them. Their laughter mocked the alienage’s despair, kept light the hearts of those who heard. The vhenadahl rustled when a chill wind escaped over the alienage walls. The tree reached high enough that it’s tallest branches rivalled the nearby buildings, its white, blue, and indigo paint glowing with life. Sunlight trickled through the leaves to make lace-like patterns on the ground.

Tear tracks streamed down Zacky’s hollowed cheeks. Raviathan made a mental note to talk to Venri about the children’s care. Many of them were looking thinner than he remembered. “What’s wrong, little bird?”

All the children wanted affection, but the orphans were starved for touch. Given the chance, they clung to him like squirrels to a tree. Zacky hiccuped, shifting to settle into Raviathan’s lap. A fresh scrape bloodied the child’s knee. “They won’t let me play.”

“Why not?” Raviathan held him tight, the child folded in his arms. They got so little attention, the orphans. Justen sat next to them, resting his head on Zacky’s back.

“It’s because he’s smaller,” Justen said. “When we were playing lines, he couldn’t break through. He got pushed down and hurt his knee.”

“Is that true?”

“So what if I’m smaller?” Zacky’s chest jerked in a sob.

“That’s right,” Raviathan said, kissing Zacky’s soft hair. “So what. That’s the smartest thing you could say, little bird. We’re smaller than humans, right?” Zacky nodded, his little head tucked into Raviathan’s chest. “But have you seen their flat eyes? Or those ugly red bumps they get on their faces? Or those silly ears of theirs? Heh. I’d much rather be an elf. You know what? Next time, sneak under their arms.” Zacky gave a little laugh. “You can only do that once because they’ll start to expect it. So you know what you do then? Tickle them. Right under their arms. Just like this!”

Zacky shrieked, squirming around in Raviathan’s lap. Instead of sending Zacky back to play with the rest, Raviathan made up a story for the two boys. Tales of Hairy the Werewolf always entertained Zacky. The poor child had been born underweight then left alone when his mother died of alcohol poisoning, but his will and determination touched Raviathan and gave the boy a special place in his heart. Odd what touched him. It wasn’t the most talented or the prettiest, it was the ones who tried the hardest. They were his favorite of the children.

More shrieks came from the children, high and piercing. The sound caught his attention. Laughter and panic were hard to discern, but this had a tone he wasn’t used to hearing.

Red-headed Aenera ran around the corner first followed by a half dozen others. Raviathan’s heart skipped a painful beat at the look of fear on their faces. No game. The children were terrified.

Swinging Zacky under the platform, Raviathan ran towards whatever danger lurked behind the building.

A werewolf bounded around the corner, his long limbs devouring space as he ran. Long talons swung out. A scream wrenched from the child who spun from the brutal strike, long gashes shown in tender flesh down to his broken spine. The child howled as his blood pooled in the furrows of mud.

No!

A second werewolf came. Fangs bared, the two continued in their vicious onslaught. Raviathan screamed, unable to stop the carnage. His legs wouldn’t move fast enough. He had no weapon, no way to stop the horror before him.

Serrena, an extraordinarily beautiful child with a wreath of lustrous sun-colored hair, cried as fangs shredded her shoulder. Blood ran down her dress in a river. Her azure eyes met his, begging for help, terrified with pain. He could do nothing to stop the werewolf from tearing her body apart. Ropes of pink intestines clung to the werewolf’s claws.

Raviathan screamed as if he was dying.

He woke with a start. Raviathan could feel his heart beating at a pace he associated with battle. He lay in his tent, gulping in frosty air that burned his lungs from cold. Maker, he hated this forest. His heart took a good few minutes to relax into its normal, steady pace. Sleep would be long in coming.

Instead of lying in the tent with his mind tumbling about, Raviathan pulled on his cold boots and cloak to go sit by the dying camp fire. To his annoyance, not only was the fire down to a few embers, the person on guard duty was missing. Probably off to relieve their bladder, but the fire should never have gotten to this pathetic state. Raviathan tossed a few pinecones into the fire pit, two logs on top, and let his magic slowly heat the fire so that it looked natural when the person on guard duty returned. 

Raviathan ran his fingers through his hair and sat with his head in his hands. This whole quest had been a debacle from the start. They couldn’t work together as a team, everyone constantly sniped at each other, and this mission was now bordering on the ludicrous. He felt an utter fool leading the insane.

Blast these people! Why couldn’t they, just once, follow orders without glares or questions? They chose to be here, so why did they push him at every opportunity? Bad enough he knew he had no idea what the right course of action was, did the rest have to keep reminding him?

Shoulders tense with resentment, Raviathan raised his head back up to measure the growth of the fire. And just where in the Maker’s name was their guard? Did that moron leave off again chasing some wisp to his death? Would serve him right.

The fire popped but shed no more light than before. Raviathan scowled at it. His magic should have it at a comfortable if small blaze by now. He added more force to his magic, but nothing. What in the world? A scrape caught his attention, and he looked up into the shadows of the forest.

Dozens of pairs of eyes stared back from the shadows. Raviathan went still as a chill numbed his body. The eyes caught the low firelight and reflected it back in red and white glows. The werewolves?

“Ambush!” Raviathan reached for his weapons to find nothing but air. He hadn’t donned his armor or weapons. Defenseless. “Wake up! Ambush!”

Silence from the tents.

From the forest, the eyes moved, coming closer, stalking him. Maker’s ass, where were the others? Raviathan kicked at the closest tent to no avail.

A low growl, almost too low to hear, vibrated through the thin air. Raviathan’s gut clenched in fear. Where was everyone? “Venger!”

Escape. Where? Climb a tree?

Raviathan yelled for help as the eyes came closer.

Movement flashed at the corner of his eye, then long, yellow teeth sank into Raviathan’s face.

Raviathan woke with a gasp, his body jerking. Next to him Venger let out a little whine, feet twitching in his sleep. Paranoid, Raviathan grasped his sword and poked his head out of his tent. Sten sat by the ash pit of their campfire, ignoring the drizzle. Without looking at him, Sten said, “It was a dream. Go back to sleep.”

Sweat chilled Raviathan, making his clothes uncomfortable as if he had worn them for too long without a wash. He ducked back in, lay his sword next to him, and curled up on his side. A dream like that would have kept him up for hours, but they were all too exhausted to miss out on any sleep, bad as sleep could be. In a few minutes, his mind shut down.

The sound of children playing drifted like music in the alienage.

“Rav,” Zacky called out in distress.

~o~O~o~

Rain continued to fall as it had for the last three days, numbing them all until warmth became a memory. Though in mid-spring, the land remained in the grip of the frozen southern winds. Raviathan glared at the cliff’s edge as if it personally insulted him. The wind howled up from the mountain side, pressing against him like an invisible hand, sending the rain sideways. The forest spread out like a blanket below them, showing off all shades of verdant hues hidden behind veils of grey rain. Raviathan would have reveled in the new sights and beauty of this land if it wasn’t constantly trying to kill him.

Even with the Elder Tree’s branch, the forest didn’t open for them as it did for the werewolves. The terrain no longer changed on them, and unnatural mists didn’t turn them around anymore, but the forest continued to be a challenge.

They started down the trail and found the narrow path in grave disrepair. Sections had been weathered away or had boulders blocking all but a hand’s worth of walking space. The path curved around crumbling precipices that had Raviathan’s heart skipping in staccato from the height, or fell in sudden dips that exposed sheer stretches of unforgiving granite. Thickets of saplings hindered movement and obscured passage. Nearly every step reminded Raviathan of how easily a person could be broken. He kept having visions of one of his companions crushed at the bottom of a sheer cliff’s edge, bones broken, blood pooling, organs ruptured, and in agony while their life didn’t pass quickly enough to escape the pain.

With his back pressed tight to the cliff’s edge and a hundred foot drop just past his toes, Raviathan thought that maybe he didn’t want to be a bear. Morrigan’s bird form appealed to him more and more as they traversed the terrain. At odd moments he thought of jumping off the cliff, of spreading wings for flight, but his mind shut down in a clamoring ‘no!’ Was it normal to think of jumping off a cliff? The strange impulse wouldn’t leave him alone as he finished inching across the thin path.

Alistair shrieked when loose stones caused him to skid towards the edge of the deadly fall. He found purchase long enough for the rest to wrestle him back to safety.

“You scream like a girl,” Leliana said. The too high giggle in her tone hinted at frayed nerves.

“Just don’t try to dress me up in heels. I don’t think I have the legs for it.”

“Don’t be silly, Alistair. While I’m sure your legs would be well turned out in high heels, a pair of duckbill shoes is more to keeping your style.”

He snorted at the comment. “Less likely to break an ankle, I’ll bet.”

Whatever Leliana would have said was lost at the resounding crack that shook the mountain beneath their feet. They had a frozen second of shared horror when the stone beneath them collapsed.

~o~O~o~

Alistair didn’t move. He couldn’t remember what it felt like not to hurt, but this was a whole new level. He felt like every single bit of him had bruises on top of bruises.

“Alistair? I don’t suppose you could get off me?”

“Oh! I… uh.” So that shifting rock underneath him was Leliana. He did his best, rocking to get some momentum since flexing his muscles to move caused searing agony. He gritted his teeth, held his breath, and shifted. With her help, he rolled to his side. Alistair didn’t dare breathe for a moment as his abused ribs screamed bone-snapping pain at him.

No moving. No more moving would be nice.

“Sorry... Leliana. You alright?”

“I think so. A bit bruised but no more than expected, given what happened.”

Didn’t that just describe them all?

“And you?”

“No worse than usual.” Alistair was not a fan of what ‘usual’ meant lately. “What happened? Where are the others? Where are we for that matter?”

Cautiously, Leliana sat up. Alistair could hear by the sound of her armor scraping against stone and the change from where her voice came from. “A rock slide, I think. I don’t know. And in a cave of some sort? Rather hard to judge in the dark, but it feels like raw stone around us.”

“Yeah.” Alistair shifted a bit, and to his relief, found out that one of the sharper pains he had incurred in the fall was actually a fist sized stone he was lying on. If only that were true for the rest of his pains. “So, since we fell in there’s got to be a hole or something to get out.”

“Mmm… that would be true assuming that the falling rock did not block our entrance.”

“Oh, Maker. I wish you hadn’t said that.” Slowly, achingly, Alistair tried to sit up. He remembered sliding, closing his eyes and curling up to minimize the damage, and falling. Rocks hit him from all sides. He remembered slamming into a rough wall then bouncing off to be hit by more rocks. As if the demon trees hadn’t been bad enough, he didn’t want to fight sentient rocks.

When he had mostly straightened to a sitting position, his head smacked the slanted rock that was their roof. “Ow!” 

“Careful.”

No kidding. Alistair felt around to gauge the space they were in. His shoulder protested the movement, so he did what he could with his less injured arm. When a warm, soft rock jerked away, he retracted his hand as if he had been burnt. “Sorry.”

“It’s… fine.”

Noooo, not awkward at all. “So,” he drawled, “you come here often?”

Leliana made a sound like a held-in snort. “This is not the time for jokes.”

Really? I think it’s the perfect time for jokes. What had he touched? Her leg? “Just trying to find out what kind of space we have here. See if there’s a way out.” If only they could see.

There was a little sound, like a shaky breath, or maybe a sob. He went very still. “Leliana?”

Was she claustrophobic?

“I’m fine.”

Yeah, right. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get out of this.”

He heard a sniff. “Of course.” She took in another shaky breath. “You’re right. Of course will find some way out.”

He slid his hand over the stone floor, tentatively, and found her hand. When their hands met, she squeezed his tightly. They sat like that, in the darkness where time didn’t matter, and took what comfort they could in not being alone. Alistair closed his eyes, which didn’t make a difference to his vision but made him feel calmer, somehow. With his eyes open, he felt as if he was searching for answers he would never find, but with his eyes closed, he could be quieter. He could listen, offer comfort without feeling awkward as he normally did.

With closed eyes, he made this space one that was more like being inside his own head where he didn’t have to worry about the judgments of others. He slid his hand up Leliana’s arm using touch as his guide, then rested his arm around her shoulders. He drew her close and felt her give in. She rested her head on his shoulder and released the silent tears she had been holding back.

“It’ll be alright, Leliana. We’ll make it through.” On impulse he kissed the top of her head.

“Do you think the others are still alive?”

Oh, Maker, but that was a scary thought. He wouldn’t cry for Morrigan, but she had probably flown off leaving the rest of them to the fate of the rocks. If she was the only other one to survive, Alistair would call all to quits and book passage to the Free Marches. Sten he would be sorry to see go. The giant wasn’t what he had expected given the Chantry’s stories. And while he didn’t like Rav, his full feelings too complicated to be put name to, he would take that hostile elf over being the last Warden. Anything but that. The Free Marches sounded better and better, given his options. “I don’t know, to be honest. But if we survived, I’m sure a few if not all of the others did as well.”

Leliana remained quiet save for a few sniffs. “Should we wait for rescue?”

At that question, Alistair started to fidget. Even in the peace of his own mind, the question forced him to make decisions, pushing him out of his comfortable passivity. “I, uh, perhaps we should, um, maybe get a sense of how big this cave is?”

“You’re probably right.” After a final sniff, Leliana straightened. “Let me. I believe it is easier for me to move about.”

What she didn’t say is that Alistair tended towards gracelessness, especially compared to Leliana, and Alistair was thankful for the lack of admonition. He let her shuffle about and considered, not for the first time, what training Leliana did have. She moved with a similar grace to the elf, their footfalls silent as shadows when they chose. If that wasn’t suspicious enough, the Chantry wasn’t known for their archers, either. Thus far Leliana had shut down every one of his cautious attempts to learn more.

Trying to make himself smaller to keep from interfering with Leliana’s search, Alistair hunched in as best he could with old and new aches throbbing at the abuse he had done to his body. Injuries were nothing new, but the extent of them had never been close to what he endured over the last few months. Alistair smiled in the dark as he thought back on wanting to be in the battles with the rest of the Wardens. That wish had been granted, but the cost of it brought a familiar ache of loss. His chest clenched as if a giant hand squeezed his sternum. Time was helping, but Maker did it ever hurt.

“I think… I’m not sure, but there may be a passage. If so, it will be a tight fit.”

Called out of his reverie, Alistair blinked, the action causing unshed tears to fall. “For you or me?”

A pause. “Tight for me would be near impossible for you.”

“Leliana, if you can get out, go for it. Maybe you can get help, or something.” Sweet of her to worry though.

“Let me check first. It may not go anywhere.”

He heard her shuffle, grunt a bit, and the scrape of her armor against stone. The tunnel she found sounded as if it was behind him.

Now that he didn’t have to worry about crowding or accidentally touching Leliana in awkward places, Alistair began his own exploration. The cave had a rough floor, one fairly straight wall on one side, and a sharply slanted wall he sat next to. The two walls closed off to a crack just above his arm’s reach from his sitting position.

When Alistair pressed his feet against the straight wall and back against the slanted and pushed, he thought he could detect the tiniest scrape of movement. Given their fall, this slanted wall must be a boulder that had shifted during the collapse and trapped them. Instead of sliding down further, or being crushed, remarkably, they had been saved in this crevice.

A familiar dull throbbing started in Alistair’s head. Headaches troubled Alistair often enough, and the fall seemed to have triggered a spell. While Leliana scraped her way through a passage, Alistair took the time to lie down and massage his forehead. Sometimes that helped. Bright lights, noise, or stress could bring on headaches. Considering how beaten down they had all been in the last months, he expected they were all on edge.

“Alistair?” Leliana’s voice echoed, the passage walls giving her voice a hollow sound.

“Still here.” Where else would I be?

“It will be a tight fit for you. I think it would be best on your back and to push with your legs.”

“Did you find a way out?”

“There is loose rubble here. I think we can dig our way out.”

Let’s hope we don’t bring down the mountain with us. What options did they have though? Wait for their air to run out?

“Um, wait,” Leliana said. “I have an idea. You will probably have a better chance of not getting stuck if you take off your armor.”

“What do you mean, get stuck?” His voice sounded an octave higher with a little squeak at the end.

There was a pause. “You probably won’t be. But take off your armor, just in case.”

“Hold on. If my options are to die trapped squeezed under tons of stone where I can’t move and trapped where I can at least turn around a bit, I’ll take my chances here, thank you.”

“Do not be silly. Get over here and help me. Some of these stones are quite heavy.”

Alistair sighed. “Um. How long is the passage?”

“It is not too bad. You can hear me quite clearly, can you not?”

“It’s… it’s not just that. I don’t think… I mean…”

“Alistair. Spit it out.”

Oh, Maker. She had been squiring for him while his ribs healed, but he felt oddly vulnerable here. “I need some help, I think. Hurt my shoulder, and I can’t move well.”

Another pause. “Ah. Hold on,” she said, and even through the distortion, he could hear her exasperation. He listened with curiosity as the sound of clinks and leather made their way up the passage, then the muffled sound of Leliana working her way back to him.

The darkness did strange things to his senses. Even though it made no difference, he kept his eyes open, but other things, like distance, seemed stretched and unreal. With each pulse of his headache, he saw a red beat in the blackness.

When he heard Leliana come close, he reached out a hand along the floor to help find her. Her hand touched his after a moment of blind scrabbling.

“There you are,” Leliana said, and Alistair felt a slight blush warm his cheeks. She took to positioning him as best she could in the narrow space. His ribs ached fiercely as he tried to sit straight. “Good thing I’ve had some practice at this. Otherwise I’d be hopeless.”

Even so, she had to fumble about to find the buckles. Alistair tried not to squirm as her hands felt around his side for the catches. His armor came off, piece by piece, and he felt lighter, cooler in the cave. Normally he liked the feel of his armor, the weight of it and protection, how it dulled all the things in this world that wanted to hurt him. In the cave though, a little extra freedom went a long way.

“Your shoulders and chest will be the hardest parts to get through. I think your legs will be fine if we leave the armor on them.”

“Thanks,” Alistair said, a whisper in the dark that seemed very intimate the way it touched everything.

“I… yes, of course. I will, um, since I’m smaller, I’ll push your armor to the other spot, yes? That way you can focus on just getting yourself through.”

The fit proved as tight as he had worried. Alistair lay on his back and pushed with his legs. While he hadn’t felt claustrophobic in the other chamber, when his forehead banged painfully against the stone ceiling, he became aware of all that weight supported by unsteady stones and just how easily crushed he would be. He wondered if he would make the same cracky sound as a crushed beetle, or have his innards pop in the same way. Then he wondered why his mind would think of these things. To torture him? Well, his mind could stop being a jerk and bugger off thinking these thoughts. Right now. Maybe now.

“Do you need help?”

A sharp pain in Alistair’s knee reminded him that he had to shimmy his way through, inch by inch. Every squirm of his torso felt like a broken shard of glass poking into his lungs. “Probably.”

Though he was in good shape, the crawl had him sweating. He couldn’t wipe the sweat away, either. Couldn’t move his arms in the tiny space.

He felt a hand touch his shoulder. “You’re almost there.”

“I think it was less trouble being born.”

“Probably not for your mother.”

“To be fair, I was much smaller at the time. Wonder if I’ll cry again.”

His torso made it halfway out of the tunnel when his head hit rocks. As his arms were still trapped, Leliana had to heave and shove and partially lift him so he could wiggle the rest of the way. “Yes. Definitely earned the right to some tears after that.”

“Silly.”

Unable to see, they had to negotiate the rocks with touch. Sharp pains shot through Alistair’s shoulder when he had to shove the larger boulders. He ended up wobbling them to and fro, mostly with his back to the boulder and pushing with his feet. Maker, his ribs would never heal at this rate.

They both had stubbed toes and shins, had rocks tumble unexpectedly, and by the time they removed enough debris that a thin light shown through the top of the pile, were panting with exhaustion.

“Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,” Leliana chanted, “I shall embrace the light.”

“We’ve certainly endured enough trials on this trip.” Alistair couldn’t help a smile as the pine scent of the forest filtered into their dusty tomb.

Digging the rest of the way out went quickly now that they could see. Another hour, and the two emerged into the red haze of the dying sun.

~o~O~o~

Of all the people to be trapped with, he would be stuck with the witch. Sten rose to his feet, ignoring the new aches and pains. Some of the bruising went bone deep, but that did not matter.

If the witch did not wake soon, it would mean her concussion was serious to the point of critical. Blood stained the left side of her head. Sten shoved his pack under her feet and checked her breathing. Having exercised the extent of his healing skills, he left it at that.

Next he turned to evaluate the area around him. The cave, a rough oblong about thirty feet across, appeared to be naturally made with sheer stone on all sides. Above him an impressive latticework of tree roots made for an interesting roof, the natural wonder of it not lost on him despite his circumstance. Faint sunlight dappled the earthen ground of the cave. One large pool of sunlight pointed to the area of roots that had broken their fall before releasing them the last twenty feet to this place. Rain continued to drip but was softened by the roots.

Sten sat with his back to a wall and did not wince at the sharp stabs of pain in his ribs and side or the throbbing of a bruise in his thigh. Pondering, he considered the options. He had no rope. Scaling the walls may be possible, but that would be difficult. A few cracks and uneven sides would be the best options.

The others were either alive or dead. If dead, they were of no concern. If alive, they were either similarly trapped, injured, or about and free to move. If injured and trapped, the possibilities were that they were dying, incapacitated to the point of being unable to escape, trapped so they can’t escape, or attempting escape. If injured and untrapped, they were either dying, incapacitated, or able to help. If able to help, they would either find them through searching or would need a signal.

Debris littered the cave floor, mostly wet leaves, twigs, and detritus from animals. He could collect combustibles and attempt a signal fire. Wet, they would be hard to light but would also give off more smoke. However, a signal fire would be wasted energy if the others couldn’t see the smoke through the thick forest or were otherwise incapacitated.

After a minute considering his options, Sten noticed the witch blinking. The witch proved apt at survival then.

Another ten minutes passed before she started to look around. She froze when she spied him. Sten continued to study the walls for the best place to climb, but he kept his awareness on her. Injured animals were the most dangerous.

“Wh-what happened?” Her voice sounded shaky.

“We fell.”

“I can see that,” she snapped. “I was hoping for some details.”

She sat up, cautiously, and pulled her waterskin for a sip.

“The ground fell. We fell with it.”

The witch glared at him before pressing a hand to her head.

Why these southerners insisted on cluttering the air with needless speech, he could not understand. Did they lack the ability to see the obvious?

“Do you know what happened to the others?”

“No.”

With slow, deliberate movements, the witch got to her feet and looked about. She kept her hand on her head, wincing as she took in their predicament.

“Why do you not heal yourself?”

“What?” Morrigan’s face twisted in pain, irritation, and confusion at the question.

“Your head injury. Why do you not heal it?”

She took a longer time to answer than he thought necessary. “My… head.”

That thing above your shoulders, yes.

“Can’t cast magic… hurt like this.”

So, the best way to deal with one of the dreaded things was to bash it on the head. Good to know. That explained why she hadn’t turned into a bird and left him here, as was her way whenever danger came.

Giving up on the witch to grasp basic logic, Sten said, “We need to get out of this place. If we can get to the roots, we can cut our way out.”

“Tis the start of a plan, I suppose.”

“How steady are you?”

“Steady? You don’t mean to use me as a ladder, do you?”

“Actually, yes.”

The witch laughed, a reaction he didn’t expect. It unnerved him. She was wild, untrustworthy, and dangerous as a viper.

“Good luck with that, my large friend.”

Using the wall as leverage so as too keep pressure off his injuries, Sten stood. “Here. This is the most scalable. With you balanced on my shoulders, you can cut a hole.”

With a thoughtful frown, Morrigan ran a hand over an area of the stone wall that had the strongest incline and a rough crack filled with dry moss. “I… suppose. Indeed, considering the situation, this seems the best course.”

After slipping a knife into her belt, Morrigan looked at Sten for direction. Her eyes still had a glazed aspect indicating her injury could still be a danger to her, but time would whittle down their resources and further decrease their chances. Better to start work as soon as possible even in a weakened state.

Sten lowered to one knee and indicated for her to start climbing. With her hands braced on the wall for stability, the witch placed one boot on his thigh. She took three hopping attempts, one which caused her to sway back. She would have fallen if not for Sten’s hand on her back to brace her. She held a hand to her head, pain tightening her mouth. He waited, patient, as a moment of confusion caused her to pause in their efforts. She had to stare at his leg, at the wall, at her hand on his shoulder, before she remembered enough to continue.

A fourth attempt, this time with his hand to help push against her lower back, she got to his knee. With one hand on the wall and one on his head, she climbed unsteadily to his shoulders. Sten held her legs firmly, and slowly rose to his feet. He closed his eyes against the strain and pull of injured muscles. The one in his side felt like a sharp stone had been placed under his skin, grating new lacerations with each motion.

When he looked up, his first thought was that he wished the witch would wear more. The leather strips of her skirt hid little at the best of times and from lower down even less. She had a root in hand, started sawing at it with the knife, and that was enough for him. He closed his eyes and meditated. He kept enough awareness on the shifts of her legs to keep her balanced, but otherwise he let his mind go blank.

From time to time, he could tell the witch stopped working as her feet would stop their back and forth shift. After a few minutes of panting, she would continue. Hours passed.

“I need to be higher.” The witch’s voice slurred with fatigue from her injury and exhaustion from work.

“Hold on to a root.” Sten lowered his arms for a second to let the blood flow then clasped her boots and pushed her up.

“Ah! Easy!”

A few bits of twig and earth sprinkled on Sten’s face. Given an option, he would not open his eyes until he could be sure the sandy bits were gone. “What do you see?”

“Roots.”

A respectable answer, at least. Sten braced his arms against the stone to guard against fatigue. What time passed, he could not say, but he came back to awareness when the witch’s feet pressed harder against his hands then lifted off. He brushed the earth from his eyes before opening them carefully. The sunlight no longer touched the earthen ground, only the back of the stone wall. Perhaps two more hours to sunset.

The hole the witch had cut was narrow, enough for her to get through with a few scratches. He saw her wiggle her way through and stand. Would she leave him? He wouldn’t be surprised if she did. He wouldn’t even be disappointed. The witch had no loyalty or honor.

When black boots left his vision, Sten pondered his ability to scale the wall. While the crack offered hand and foot holds, the climb wouldn’t be easy. At least he had passage. With that, he gathered his pack and began preparing his muscles for the painful climb.

A long, gnarled branch wove through a tight section of roots near where the witch had escaped. Sten watched as the witch angled the branch back and forth or rotated it to get it further through. She couldn’t help him with her own strength, but this would be adequate if the branch held traction against the roots.

“Is that enough?” Morrigan called.

“I believe so.”

“The branch fork is pressed as far as possible against the roots. It should hold.”

Sten tossed his pack up to the hole where the witch grabbed it. Bit by bit, he made his way to the lip of the wall, had to yank the roots apart to widen the hole, and saw a red sunset as he emerged.

“Not bad, qunari.” The witch smiled at him, a look that chilled rather than enticed. “Perhaps we do not make such a horrid team after all.”

While he had escaped the pit, so had the viper.


	49. Eyes of Wolves - Forgotten Gods

Raviathan didn’t dare move.

As soon as he started falling, he curled up tight with his arms covering his head. Loose-bodied might have been better, but his instincts wouldn’t let him fall that way. Stones battered him, roots beat him like clubs, boulders knocked him to and fro as if being caught in a strong current. At one point he hit a slide that he was sure broke his bones, the chaos being too much to check by magic. Down he went, sliding down rough stone, carried by a wash of pebbles and sand. Finally he felt open air, his heart in his mouth as he went into free fall.

He smashed into a floor, his breath whooshing out. Propelled by those same instincts, he rolled as fast as he could. The boulders that fell after him vibrated through the floor. A second too late would have seen him crushed, his bones snapped and blood splattered across the floor like a beetle under heel.

Raviathan breathed in dusty, chilled air, and for the first time in his life, felt a fear that paralyzed him to immobility. Never before had he been so aware of how far away his home was. So many miles away--hundreds--away from anyone or anything that could protect him.

When he walked through the alienage, in the late night or early morning when an incredible stillness settled to make the moments feel timeless, he had been aware of all the sleeping elves around him. When he traveled to Ostagar, Duncan walked beside him, his presence reassuring even in the first days when Raviathan had been filled with anger and sorrow to be replaced by hope when Raviathan knew they would be reunited by night’s fall.

His companions, filled with disdain, anger, distrust, at least fought by his side. In a crisis, they stood together. Badly, but still together.

Alone, he was terrified.

All his life, with the alienage walls or the walls between him and his friends, walls between him and everyone he loved because of his magic, nothing prepared him for this.

It was like the dream from his Joining. Alone, and faced with the impossible.

He couldn’t move.

The pain at the center of his being drove out thought. He felt black inside, hollow. He kept trying to will himself to move. The more he failed, the more the tidal wave of hopelessness pressed down on him, crushing until he could barely breathe.

Despair turned his insides black, crushed him down until he could feel nothing but the suffocating weight of loneliness. It stole his breath until he couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead.

Tapping. Claws tapping on stone.

Snuffled breathing.

Raviathan felt his heartbeat speed as if it would pound out of his chest cavity. Even an enemy, just someone there, took away the blackness that crippled him. 

Tap, tap, closer.

Raviathan curled up tighter, listening, tensed for action. 

Hot breath on the back of his neck.

I don’t want to die.

A lick. A wide, flat tongue on his cheek followed by a little whine.

“Venger?”

A low ruff of acknowledgment.

Relief hit Raviathan like a force. Every muscle went lax. He felt dizzy for a moment, the adrenaline after effects making him weak. He reached out a trembling hand to touch the dog’s warm fur and solid mass. 

“I don’t suppose you know if we’re alone.”

The dog made a sound, as close to a yes as a dog could get, Raviathan supposed. A little force of will, and Raviathan had a mage light up. It flared like a candle flame without wick, steady, hovering in a slow revolution above his head.

Raviathan took inventory of his and Venger’s injuries: bruised and cracked bones, bruised tissues, joints jolted from impact, internal bleeding, cuts and lacerations, sprains. Raviathan felt some damage to his brain from being knocked about, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed in a few moments. As his magic worked, his confusion lifted, his mind clearing.

Eyes closed to sharpen his mental senses, Raviathan’s hands roamed over the dog. Venger had a laceration on one side, strained tendons that caused a limp, a cracked shoulder blade, more bruises everywhere.

His second heart flared, the magic flowing out in an arc of purest white light. Warmth filled Raviathan as his power coursed through him, poured into the shapes his discipline had taught, paths of healing runes that changed his fire, tinted it green, worked to repair the damage he felt. Blood vessels eased, shrank as blood flow restored to its natural rivers. Flesh knit together, fibers and delicate nerves attaching.

Maker, his magic was a glory to feel. Raviathan pitied those who would never know this warmth, this infusing light, how it eased the soul and brought the world to rights. One benefit of all the damage the party had taken over the last months was that Raviathan was becoming an expert in trauma healing.

Healed to a few remaining aches, Raviathan stood and took stock. He stood in a hallway, one long-abandoned by the sight of things. The air felt stale, and no animal detritus marred the area. This place hadn’t been touched by any in Maker knew how long.

The boulders that had crashed after him blocked off the hole he had fallen through. Two boulders, twice as large as he was tall, sat at the base. Sand and rocks plugged the rest. Though digging out that way may have been possible, Raviathan thought it would be more likely that destabilizing the debris would cause a slide that would kill him.

A tiny trickle of energy, and the light floating around his head turned into four, all revolving in a lazy circle.

“Well, let’s take a look, shall we? And warn me if you sense one of the others near.”

Woof.

Raviathan headed right from the rock pile. Now that he had Venger, light, and his injuries tended to, he was in much better spirits. In his backpack he had food and water for three days. No, Raviathan needed to recalculate considering his hunger of late. Two days, but that should be enough. With ingenuity and a bit of luck, they would find their way out.

As he walked, Raviathan studied the carvings on the walls. Never before had he seen their like. They were stylized representations, haunting and beautiful, like no art he had ever seen. His fingers grazed over one, the sleek lines of a halla’s nose as it led to the elegantly twining horns. Some designs were easily recognizable, others puzzled him as the shapes and lines made no form he could understand. Still, they were beautiful, harmonious in their style, complex but never cluttered.

Maker, what Ness would make of this place! He could see her in his mind’s eye, the way she would light up at this discovery, the furious scratchings of her pens to take down every detail. How would she incorporate this into her art? If she could see this with him, his Ness would be the herald of a new generation of artists. He thought of her ink-stained fingers with a fondness that bordered on pain. How she would have cried at this discovery, and he thought of the sweet little frown line between her brows when she concentrated on her work. Why she hated her hands so he would never understand. 

Struck anew with the fact that he may be the first person to see these ruins in decades, maybe centuries, Raviathan took out one of the two journals he carried, both of Dalish make. One of the Brecillian trees produced a thin bark that peeled away, its consistency like rough paper, but it took ink beautifully. In one notebook he logged the events of the days, a bare bones account to start then a paragraph on his personal thoughts of events.

In the other notebook he kept records of all the creatures they had seen: darkspawn, the various types of undead, unusual forest creatures, blighted animals, the demons the hermit summoned, and so on. These included sketches and occasional samples, like pressed leaves from the sylvan or a lock of carefully bound werewolf hair. With these entries came a brief story of how he came upon them or the circumstances involved. He couldn’t help but take some flowers for pressings and seeds which were gathered and meticulously labeled in his healer’s kit.

Though he lacked his wife’s artistic training--former wife he reminded his stubborn heart--he could make a passable sketch. Venger napped as Raviathan sketched, time turning meaningless in the sun-forgotten ruin. How old were these? Raviathan’s heart ached to see his lost history.

Remnants of a rock slide cut off the rest of the passage. If nothing was done to protect and research this find, this place would be lost far too soon to the continued deterioration of the land. If Raviathan had his way, true artists would be here making proper drawings, studying the lay of stones, working to uncover all this ruin’s mysteries. So much lost, and the idea of losing any more keys to history was a pain that burned inside him at the injustices of the world.

Turning back, Raviathan strode passed the wreck of boulders marking his point of entry. If the passage didn’t lead anywhere, he could probably blast at the boulders from a safe distance away to make a clearing. Any further disturbance to the ruin troubled him, so he kept it in mind as a last resort. While he could spend weeks sketching every line of the murals, Raviathan figured escape needed to be a higher priority. Pity.

Tongue lolling, Venger trotted by his side. Raviathan let his fingers rest on the dog’s neck. So far Venger proved to be his only friend, but what a fine companion the dog made. Raviathan scratched the dog’s ruff in gratitude. He stopped and poured some water into a shallow bowl for the dog to drink, took a few sips from his waterskin, and sat to share a lunch. They had time.

As he munched on dried apple slices, he thought of the others. Were they alive? Morrigan probably flew off at the first sign of danger. Maker, what a useful skill. He just couldn’t get the blasted spell to make sense to him. Instead of a bear, maybe an owl? He liked barn owls. A hawk? Maker, that would be grand, Raviathan thought and smiled to himself. What would it be like to spread his wings? To never fear heights again? To look out over the land, to make the view from atop the cliff a common thing?

Then he thought of Leliana, strange but sweet even if she kept her secrets close to her chest. Raviathan understood that desire well enough. He had been keeping secrets since his earliest memories. Has she survived the rock slide? Maker, he hoped so.

Sten? Sten he could take or leave without much care. While he didn’t wish death on the qunari, if Sten decided to make his own way without them, Raviathan wouldn’t care. They needed the extra muscle desperately, but the rage and disdain he leveled at Raviathan could take a flying leap into the Abyss.

What of Alistair? Raviathan nibbled his lip, troubled. Had he been wrong about the templar? Former templar? The discussion they had kept returning to his mind, unbidden and unwanted but persistent as the tide. Raviathan wasn’t going to feel sorry for templars, not ever. They made their choices unlike his mage-talented kin who were forced away at sword point to be locked up for the rest of their lives without a single word to their families. Learning your child had magic was almost like having them die. You would never see or hear from them again.

However, Alistair hadn’t actually taken vows. Raviathan chewed a slice of venison, the tough meat making his jaw ache before it was worn down enough to swallow. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to Alistair again, find out more. If the man survived the avalanche.

Then there was Morrigan. He wondered, not for the first time, if he should take her up on her offer. Just sex. No tears, no expectations. With a regular partner, maybe he could keep the intrusive thoughts at bay. He pondered the question, again, and came to the same bitter conclusion. He knew relationships. Even when ended on good terms, they were never as clean as the witch would believe, not when they had to travel with each other, and not when he had made a promise to protect her.

Maker, he wished he could stop the constant background of thoughts, the aching need that never seemed satisfied. That longing nearly wrecked his standing in the alienage, had hounded him like a plague during his childhood and again since he left the alienage. If he couldn’t find some relief, he would eventually go to Morrigan.

Would that be so bad?

Yes! Stop it.

For the first time, he wondered why he had never considered Leliana. Attractive, intelligent, and worldly, she had many of the qualities he sought in a lover. Still, there was something strange about her, both a longing and fear that pulled her in two directions, like children holding hands and spinning, pulled apart but unable to separate. Leliana would not be a simple bed partner, he knew, if he desired such a course. The songbird longed for love, a soul deep need, desire beyond sex, yet she didn’t trust herself to love or be loved. 

Humans could be such odd creatures, but was that humans in themselves or how they chose to live? That was a distinction he just beginning to understand having now seen a few examples of the vast differences in human culture. While he had chaffed at the rules the alienage enforced on relationships between children, Raviathan thought of how they protected the finer feelings until he and his kin were ready to forge a bond with open hearts. Elves who lived outside the alienage had different feelings, more bruised in his opinion, than those who lived protected by the bonds of kinship. 

Raviathan knew he wouldn’t pursue the songbird even though she would be a better match than Morrigan on many levels. Sex didn’t matter—didn’t hurt—but love… love was everything, and his heart fractured more and more, every time he thought of his sweet Ness. Moreover, as a Grey Warden, that part of his life was over. He couldn’t afford to entertain such thoughts, and he would not be so cruel as to give hope where none existed. 

Impatient to get his mind elsewhere, Raviathan packed up and continued down the hallway. The corridor turned this way and that. Some rooms were destroyed by rockfall, others by thick roots that were slowly prying the structure apart. How long would this ruin last? A few doors opened to strange chambers, the purpose of which could sometimes be gleaned, but more often than not, remained in the realm of long dead memories.

A double door that curved up into a high pointed arch contained what looked like an old pyre. The beaten metal disk stretched ten feet across, and while scorch marks stained the disk, no ash remained. Raviathan marveled at the complex geometric patterns on the floor inlaid with semi-precious stones and copper covered in a green patina. The ceiling rose high overhead in a dome covered with more stylized murals.

Awed, Raviathan wandered, turning slowly as he walked, trying to take it all in. The intense stillness of this place stunned him. Perfect silence echoed, ancient whispers lost, with only his crown of light to toss back the shadows.

Grand murals three times his height made of gold tiles framed the room. Raviathan recognized some of the gods, Ghilan’nain from the ornate halla horns that framed an image of a woman, and Andruil by the bow she carried. He reached up to run a hand over the gold tiles of one god, the design framing the figure in a circle. The tiles gleamed warmly, like a living benediction, where he had wiped the dust away. He did not care that his tears flowed. He stood in a holy place. If he could, he would lovingly clean them all, let them shine as they once did for his people. How they would have sparkled with the fire lit in the center of the room, like being at the heart of The Golden City.

The click of Venger’s claws, the only sound in all that impressive silence, followed as Raviathan left to explore further. One room was barred, the doors warped for a reason not to do with age. Using his sword, he pushed it through the crack formed from the wend of wood. Holding the hilt with one hand and pinching the blade with the other, he sawed the blade up and down, gradually pushing the barrier up until it clattered on the ground. Even with the barrier out of the way, the warping required a great deal of force to open. Raviathan wouldn’t have been able to force the door without Venger’s considerable weight.

Inside, the circular room contained statues tucked into alcoves, all facing a giant gold framed mirror on a pedestal. Raviathan approached the mirror, curious. Mirrors were a luxury not often found in the alienage, but he had seen one at Alarith’s shop. Strangely, the mirror was grey, reflecting his countenance only a little better than glass.

Lips pressed, Raviathan thought he looked a right idiot in his ill-fitting clothes and ripped up armor. He fluffed his hair a bit, surprised by how long it had grown. Worse, he could see uneven hunks where his blades had cut off bits when he put them away. Oh, for love of the Maker! He bound his hair up in a thin leather strap then snipped enough off the ends to even up the rest. His hair lay a few inches past his shoulders when finished.

His vanity tended to, Raviathan wondered about this room. The mirror was clearly something special, the focus of the room, but for what purpose? He walked around it, examined the statues, touched the mirror, even tested it with a bit of magic, but no hints formed why the ancient elves had created this or revered the mirror as they clearly had. Puzzled, Raviathan continued on.

The hallway opened up into a grand room with a raised dais in the center. So far very little furniture or other pieces remained in the empty rooms, but this area contained clues to its purpose. Wooden benches sat in haphazard rows, cracked with age and what could have been conflict judging by the deep scars. Tapestries hung, darkened with dust, and was that blood? Porcelain vases, some smashed, and statues gave hints to what this room once looked like.

He had to save this place, somehow. This ruin was a fortune in history. He examined one statue set in a recessed arch. The figure had a slender build to the point of emaciation and narrow arms that seemed too long, giving the figure a faintly eerie cast. A shepherd’s staff in one hand, the other outstretched, Raviathan wondered if this was Falon’Din, the guide for dead souls. The figure wore a robe of odd make and an ornate headpiece, but the details of his face showed only a vague hint of eyes and cheekbones.

Strange.

A door to the side opened into a library. Raviathan gasped at the books then began to cough furiously from inhaling so much dust. After taking a few sips of water, he took inventory. Did he dare disturb any of it? If a book crumbled in his hands, he would never forgive himself. A few books lay scattered on the ground. Those he felt he could touch with a minimum of fuss. With the slow deliberate care he gave when sewing up a patient, he righted one with the most minimal shifts he could manage. Even so, brittle pages cracked from the movement.

The script, though beautiful, was unlike any he had ever seen. The common letters of the King’s tongue tended towards straight lines, but these had elegant curves that flowed more from a brush than a pen. In that moment Raviathan knew he had no choice. He would have to come back. After the blight? If he survived the blight, he thought with a bitter, painful resignation. Perhaps he should let Zathrian know of this place. The ancient Keeper would have more resources to understand the books and symbols.

So why did his heart mourn at the idea of telling Zathrian? Raviathan knew he would never be a keeper of history, and he did want to spread this wonder to the rest of the elves. Certainly, he could not stand to see this lost. In some way, this was his and only his right now. Seeing others learn it’s secrets while he had to step back, be made an outsider of his own history, it hurt in a way that made him feel like a traitor to his people. Maybe… maybe a note? Something to show the location of this ruin on a map so that if he died, this treasure would not be lost.

When he examined the room again, a glint of red caught his eye. Picking his way carefully so as not to damage any of the books on the ground, Raviathan found the sizable gem that winked in the light. It had to be glass. No ruby was that size. But… strange. A trick of the light, or did the shadows in the gem swirl of their own accord? Raviathan held a hand over it, let his power flow.

Shocked, he snatched his hand back. Next to him, Venger whined.

Not his imagination. The shadows and light in the gem swirled frantically. Raviathan felt emotion from the gem. Fear, and desperation. The hint of a plea.

Dare he trust it? Raviathan sat on his heels and contemplated the gem. If Morrigan was here to back him, he would try contact again. Alone? He risked far too much without anyone to intercede if he needed help.

He felt it, the plea, so faint, like the near forgotten memory of a dream. The growing desperation pouring from the gem pulled at his need to help.

“I’m an idiot.” Solyn would have reddened his ass for even thinking of communicating with the gem. He sighed. “Complete idiot.”

Stretching out his fingers, just shy of touching, Raviathan let his power flow again.

Fragments of thoughts in a language long dead. Fear. Hopelessness.

Raviathan couldn’t understand the language, but the emotions spoke clearly. Taking a deep breath in preparation and part resignation, he held the gem.

Instantly the images clarified. An elf in armor that shone like moonlight. Magic flowing through his swords as if they were staves. Protect the weak. A war, one he was certain to lose.

In a second, Raviathan understood his kinship with the trapped spirit.

Something between a sob and a gasp raked Raviathan’s throat. Too many dead, and one needed to survive to give an account. The spirit had willed itself into the gem to survive the battle, expecting to be freed once his brethren reclaimed the cathedral.

A psyche broken by loneliness and too much time spent in fear and uncertainty. Memories so faded with age they eluded lucidity like shifting mists veiling the world from sight. A plea for death, the true death of the soul.

Pressure, like a clenching fist, squeezed Raviathan’s chest in sympathy pain. Maker, what monster would deny this tortured soul?

“Rest,” Raviathan said. He held the gem tight in his hand and made his first spell, his fire.

His fire, his sun, struck with the fierceness of lighting. His vision turned white. The veil covering the memories lifted. Images snapped into his conscious, flash flash flash, one after another. They streamed into him, inexorable. Raviathan couldn’t concentrate to slow the torrent let alone stop the onslaught.

The forest as it once stood, new trees as the elves cultivated it. Bright, golden sun on open plains, and the new green of trees reaching upward. 

A tapestry his father wove, a sense of pride at the pure mastery of craftsmanship, hung in the cathedral.

Children playing in a field of flowers, yellow, pink, violet, making wreaths to wear. A woman—sister—with her son.

Exhausted muscles straining, trembling, but the training did not stop. Again, lift the swords though they are shaking as he pushs at the end of his endurance. 

Fear, a darkness, a change, a curse of the Forbidden Ones. Rumors and facts intertwined. What is coming?

Racing a halla, a woman with dark hair flowing behind her, a wink and wild grin at him as her halla leaps over a log to speed down a hill.

Music surrounding him, vibrating inside him, the power of hundreds of voices filling him to a place beyond thought, where sound and emotions are one. 

He stands with blades out, a dance of grace and death, his will and body one. 

_Magic and metal, muscle and mind, he is the guardian, and he shines against the darkness._

A final flash, and Raviathan fell back, his head thumping against a bookcase. The old wood, weak with age, groaned with the impact.

Andraste’s burning knickers, what the fuck was that?

Venger whined. He pawed at Raviathan’s arm and looked ready to slobber on him if that would help.

“I’m okay.” He patted Venger’s shoulder, ignoring the tremble in his hand. “I’m okay, bud. Just… wow.”

The images stuttered in his mind, less intense, like the aftereffects of looking at the sun. When Raviathan glanced down at his hand, he saw thousands of tiny red shards. He blew on them to scatter the little crystals so as not to cut himself.

Instead of rising, Raviathan took a moment to try to sort out what the images meant. The soul was gone, poor tormented thing. Raviathan was glad for that, but it did leave him with a complicated puzzle to solve, a puzzle made worse by having missing pieces and no reference to solve it. One thing he could confirm was that all the elves wielded magic in the days before humans. The children making wreaths had spelled the flowers to glitter or intertwine. Children with that level of magic! And free to practice without fear, all with the gentle guidance of their elders.

Many of the images remained disjointed, some with no context, or thoughts too alien to comprehend. The Forbidden Ones? Gods of deceit and malice, the followers of whom had to be hunted down. Why would anyone follow such a god?

An image floated up from the shifting pool of memory. A man scorned, forbidden to follow the Emerald Path, loss of standing with his fellows, a temper, an accident. A terrible accident. Vengeance denied so turned to the Void. Madness. Eyes turned crimson. Blood, tears of blood streaming down his face.

Raviathan shook his head at the series of emotion-tinged memories. So much to sort through. What did it all mean? And what kind of magic could seal away a soul in a gem? And how the fuck did this soul communicate with him and transfer these memories? This was unlike any magic he had ever heard of. The only thing that came close was blood magic, used to control minds and emotions, but there had been no control. Aside from the transfer of memories, Raviathan had complete autonomy.

His first spell could have some unusual effects. He’d meant to destroy the gem, but this flood of memories? Healing and peace were the main purpose of that spell, but he needed to remember that his first magic could be unpredictable. 

When Raviathan raised his head to look at the small library, he mourned again the history of his people. The incredible amount of knowledge, collected and refined over centuries, even millennia of lives dedicated to learning and mastery, lost. The injustice of it would choke him with rage if he let his mind dwell on this path.

After a scratch on Venger’s shoulder to reassure the dog, Raviathan rose and continued to explore.

Back in the main room with the dais, Raviathan saw with new eyes. On the far wall hung the tapestry his - the spirit’s - father had created. He went over to examine the fine weaving, the skill that could only be attained through centuries of practice. Horns of a halla turned into tree branches that linked at the top. In the center stood a woman in a field. Sun glinting off her armor and swords even though star constellations dotted the background. Through the dust and years, Raviathan could still make out the flares of light woven with subtle attention. The swords seemed an impossible design with curves and wicked spikes, the material more like glass than metal.

Amazing.

The pottery now looked familiar as did the statues. Not that he had seen the like before, but everything here had an overlay of memory as if he had visited this place long ago.

Now that he had a layer of understanding coloring his view, he recognized the spherical construct tipped over and half hidden in the debris. A sphere made of a dark green marble-like stone lay on its side, forgotten. He righted the sphere back on its pedestal, and spun the globe into activation. The sphere crackled with energy. Instantly, Raviathan felt a shift in the Veil, the sensation bringing a new awareness to his perceptions. A shiver feathered up his back at the new awareness, as if he peeled away a bandage and all the sensations felt new to tender skin. 

Maker help him, he didn’t want to leave this place with all its treasures. 

The next chamber he entered, he understood its purpose. A fountain dominated the center with a shallow pool forming a perfect circle. Here, the ancient elves revered Mythral, the All Mother. Raviathan knelt in front of the pool, not surprised that water remained.

We lost our gods, our stories, our language, and in the process, lost ourselves.

For long moments he contemplated the water. Venger lay next to him, the dog’s head on his lap. Raviathan scratched behind the dog’s ears when he remembered to but otherwise let his hand rest on Venger’s neck.

We cling to scraps and no longer remember what they mean.

Though tempted, Raviathan did not drink from the water. He was a Grey Warden, and the job of reclaiming this ruin belonged to someone who could devote their lives to study. Knowing this place existed and that its secrets would no longer remain hidden from his people was enough for him. For the first time, Raviathan didn’t see his people as dock workers or servants, prostitutes or outcasts. His people weren’t the wandering elves with fragments of stories.

We were great, once. We had magic beyond the mages of today. We built grand places that filled our hearts with reverence and knowledge. We were warriors, crafters, inventors. We didn’t just garden, we made forests. We shaped this world. We were great, once.

Raviathan rested his head on the lip of the pool, his tears falling on the pale stone.

He thought of elfroot, the hardy plant that grew everywhere, wild and strong, the miracle plant that healed. Roots, stem, leaves, it vanquished disease, sped healing, cleaned blood, calmed stomachs, and so much more. Because the plant was common, most gave it little thought even though all benefited from its grace. He thought of his people as elfroot, scattered to the winds, unappreciated but essential, each seed holding the possibility of a living miracle.

We were great, once. Trample us down, break us apart, take away everything, and still we grow as persistent as weeds. The seed is there to be great again.

He kissed the lip of the fountain, thankful that it existed. Abstract stories gave him heart, an identity as one of the Elvhen, but this, the physical proof of his ancestors, calmed away the fears that the shems had been right about his people. He wiped away the salt from his tears and stood.

Now with purpose, Raviathan strode through the maze-like corridors. He examined one exit after another, each grand double door either blocked with rubble or petrified through other means. Finally, he found a simple, small door. The lock was a strange one, not the usual tumbler-based system of most locks. He nibbled on his lower lip as he worked, he head moving to and fro to get a better view of the mechanism. His mage light was invaluable in highlighting the wafers that required different heights in order to work. By the time he finished, his knees ached.

Another break, another meal, time to rest his knees. All that work, and this door might not lead anywhere. He had time though. When Venger finished chewing his venison stick, he turned hopeful eyes on Raviathan.

“Okay.” Raviathan tossed the dog a corner of cheese. “But we have to conserve until we find a way out. Just in case.”

Venger snatched the cheese out of the air, his stump of a tail wagging.

The door led to what had to be servants quarters judging by the smaller rooms and furniture. Though Raviathan hadn’t thought about it, he supposed there would have to be servants. The idea surprised him, after all that grandeur to have something so mundane. Mundane, but evidence of catastrophe was written into each room, the spilled furniture, dark stains on the walls, bones turned to dust, the remains of age-broken weapons. Whatever had happened, it left some rooms empty, almost untouched, and others wrecked. More mysteries.

After a passing through a morass of passages and rooms, Raviathan had to pick his way through another lock, this one easier after his initial practice. This time, he needed magic to unseal the door. He held his hand to the carved stone, his mind’s eye seeing the runes to unravel. When he opened the door, the scent of earth and pine was more intense than he could have imagined. The contrast from the stale air of the ruin felt like stepping through time.

The door led to a narrow cavern, a natural fissure in the earth with rough granite sides winding up to a green canopy turned gold in the sunlight. Directly above was an earthen overhang held together by the forest vegetation. The roots of plants hung down through the earth like a multitude of broken fingers. Raviathan closed the door and reset the runes. The ledge he stood on extended a few feet before falling into a chasm blackened with shadow.

Raviathan stared at the fissure, hands on his hips, lower lip between his teeth. He could scale the walls without too much trouble, but Venger?

“Okay, bud. This isn’t going to be comfortable, but I trust you to be smart enough to trust me. Okay?”

Venger cocked his head and whined.

Pulling out a few spare clothes from his pack, Raviathan used them to pad the rope he wove around Venger’s chest and legs. The dog outweighed him by a few stone. Still, Raviathan tested the rope harness he made to make sure it was balanced then tied the other end around his belt.

He got on one knee to face the dog, his hands cupping Venger’s head. “Listen. I’m not leaving you behind. Be patient. When I start pulling you up, it will be uncomfortable, but you can’t struggle. It’s the only way out for both of us. Understand?”

Venger gave a low, serious woof.

Oh, Maker, please let this work. If he gets hurt, I’ll never forgive myself.

Raviathan pressed his hands and feet against the narrowest section of granite walls he could reach. He had to move forward along the fissure walls to get out of the overhang that hid the little forgotten door, but the climb was easy enough.

The rope’s slack was nearly at an end when Raviathan found a good tree, one with smooth wood, for the next part of his plan, then calculated what he would need to use from the forest.

Tying the rope firmly around his waist, Raviathan called out, “Get ready.”

Lifting the dog directly would be impossible, but leveraging him up using the trees as makeshift pulleys might do the trick. He’s seen the principle at work in the dock yard. He braced his feet against a boulder, rope tight, and thrust with his legs. The rope went taut with Venger’s weight. So far, so good. He leaned, near parallel with the ground, and stepped up to the next tree. Going slow to keep his balance, he braced against the trunk in a crouch, and stretched out his body again.

Rope taunt, Raviathan circled the tree until the rope remained in place with minimal effort. Untying himself and knotting the rope, he could now relax knowing whatever happened, the rope would keep Venger safe in case he failed.

“Are you okay, bud?”

A whining sort of woof made Raviathan smile. Venger maybe uncomfortable, but he was fine. Raviathan braced himself against the first tree, wrapped the rope once around his forearm, and pulled. He trapped the rope under one foot, not something he could trust, but the rope now had enough slack for him to make a knot that would allow only one-way pulling. 

Knot executed, he relaxed. Thank the Maker this was working, but each second that ticked by added to his guilt. He need to get Venger to safety. Just… let the blood flow back into his arms a bit longer.

One deep breath, position set, Raviathan pulled. At the end of each pull, he held the rope against the tree with his foot just long enough to weave the slack through the base knot. Raviathan lost count of pulls after five. His thighs began to burn, but only when his muscles gave out would he stop. Another pull. Another. Raviathan’s hands trembled with the effort, his arms starting to shake with strain. He had to remind himself to breathe or he would wear himself out.

Finally he saw Venger’s tan coat reach the lip of the ravine. Grinning with relief, he heaved one more time. Venger righted himself and ran over to give Raviathan’s face a tongue bath.

“Oh dear Maker! Yes, yes, I love you too.” Silly dog. “Such a good boy.”

Unable to stop his smile, Raviathan undid the knots, putting everything away. “You’re doing all the heavy lifting for the rest of the day.”

Venger agreed with a happy bark.

“Do you think we can find the others?”

Nose twitching, Venger lifted his head up. He moved about in different directions then led Raviathan up a rise. More nose twitches, then Venger lifted a front leg to point at the cliff side they had been scaling down when the avalanche struck.

“Let’s go see then, shall we?”

Raviathan started to set off when Venger stood in front of him to block his path.

“What is it?”

A woof, and Venger looked just above Raviathan’s head. Confused, Raviathan glanced behind him, then above, then back at Venger. The dog raised his front paw to scratch at his head.

“Oh!” The mage light! Raviathan extinguished it with a thought. “Thanks, bud.”

Venger’s jaws opened in a wide doggy smile then trotted off towards the others. The dog is smarter than I am, Raviathan thought with a grin. His brows knitted as he started to wonder how long he could keep his magic secret from the rest.


	50. Eyes of Wolves - Epiphany

Alistair’s head popped out from his tent. Panting and face flush, he gasped as he took in the pre-dawn camp. Raviathan raised an eyebrow as his only sign of acknowledgment, his attention focused on the breakfast he prepared. A drizzling rain thickened the air, a grey mist obscuring the first light of dawn.

“Not much use sleeping at this point,” Raviathan said. He remained hunched over the sputtering fire, stirring the pot. The skin of a wolf staked over the fire kept most of the rain off.

“Yeah.” Letting his nightmare-induced panic go, Alistair dressed before sitting on one of the wet stones opposite the elf and mabari. Maker, he felt like he’d spent a year in these woods for all the progress they’ve made. The fall from the cliff a few days ago hadn’t helped his chest any, the dull ache becoming sharp each time he stretched too far. 

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Not with you, anyway, Alistair added in his head.

Weaponless, he had been wandering the halls of the Tower of Ishal by himself. This time the altars made of humans seemed alive. The entrails woven between spears writhed, while exposed lungs at the base of the altars breathed. A heart stuck at the top continued to beat and bleed. The organs remained fresh, the low torchlight reflecting off wet muscles. He sensed the altars had been made out of the other Wardens, could almost hear their cries of pain just below his ability to sense them, the same way he heard the song of the archdemon.

The human-crafted stone of Ishal turned to the rough-hewn caves of the Deep Roads as Alistair walked. The altars made from Grey Wardens turned to fleshy sacks that grew hair and nails. Little mouths of sharp teeth worked when he passed by, as if sensing his presence and wanting to feed. The darkspawn kept out of sight, but Alistair could feel them stalking him, waiting.

As the dream went on, Alistair felt himself dying. Mold grew on his hands, his skin turning sickly, the decay rotting his insides. With each step, he grew more tired, each step becoming a force of will until he could only shuffle, his joints locked in pain. When the darkspawn came, it had almost been a relief.

“Care for stew instead?”

Alistair shook himself to get rid of the specter of the dream. “Is that what’s left over of the beaver?”

Raviathan nodded. “It’s a proper stew, not the camp dish people call a stew.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Proper stew takes hours, sometimes a day to cook. Thick and rich, letting the flavors mature over low heat. The stuff we make for dinner is more like a soup without enough water, just enough to cook meat and veg.”

“You’ve been up all night then?”

“Parts.” Raviathan spooned a large portion into Alistair’s outstretched bowl.

Too bad they had no bread to go with beaver stew. To Alistair’s surprise, the meat wasn’t the same stringy leather-tough meat he had cooked on spits last night. His jaw had ached from chewing the wretched stuff, and finally he started swallowing hunks whole just to get something in his stomach. Now, with the meat softened, he could concentrate on the taste, a bit like deer but fatty as bacon. “What else is in this?”

“Some forest herbs, mainly rosemary, roots from Morrigan, wild onions, the last jar of fermented cabbage.”

“If we don’t go back to the Dalish for more supplies, we’ll be spending most of our time hunting and foraging.”

Raviathan caught his lower lip between his teeth. “With spring coming, living off what we gather won’t be as difficult. I’d rather stay out here where we’re closer to finding Witherfang than waste time trudging back and forth. Some days we only gain a few miles.”

They both glanced up as a raven flew eastward, a long branch clutched in her talons. The black wings pumped to take the bird up over the tree line. They would have to wait at the camp until Morrigan returned with the Grand Oak’s boon least they fall prey to the forest without it. Alistair turned to Raviathan to see the elf watching Morrigan’s flight with a strange expression. Was that longing? The two of them spent many evenings together. Did that mean they were…?

Raviathan turned back to the fire but froze when he caught Alistair watching him. The too-familiar frown knitted the elf’s brows together before his face shuttered closed, as expressionless as a mask. Even so, the mask didn’t hide the note of hostility that caught in the elf’s eyes. Alistair’s jaw tightened in response, and he lowered his head and started shoveling the stew as fast as he could.

Whatever. Alistair had tried. They didn’t have to like each other. So what if Rav thought he was an idiot and useless? Everyone else did, everyone except Duncan, and that was the fire burning in Alistair’s chest. If there was one thing Alistair could do for Duncan, one thing to make some sort of meaning out of his mentor’s death and the slaughter and betrayal of the Wardens, Alistair would see the archdemon killed. For Duncan, for his brothers, he would tolerate that witch and this damn Warden he was stuck with. Whatever it took, Alistair would honor his mentor.

Still, he couldn’t deny the relief he felt when he heard Venger barking, a signal the others had survived the cliff fall. Though Rav would never be the leader he wanted, Alistair would take that over being the last Warden in Ferelden.

“What do you think of magic?”

The question made Alistair glance back up in part for its unexpectedness and part because of the soft tone the elf used. Unsure where this line of questioning came from, Alistair shrugged. “Useful, I suppose.”

“You don’t much care for Morrigan.”

Alistair snorted. “Figured that one out, have you?” The elf’s sharp glance at the comment would have made Alistair feel ashamed for mouthing off so, but he was done with that. Mostly. Maybe if the elf’s cold stare didn’t make him want to squirm just a bit. Well, he wasn’t going to apologize, not for that.

“Let me rephrase then.” The elf turned his attention back to the stew. “Is your distaste for Morrigan because of her magic, because she’s an apostate, or for her?”

Dragging his spoon around his bowl to capture the last of the gravy, Alistair wondered what was the point of this conversation. Didn’t seem to matter to anyone what he thought. “I don’t have an issue with magic. I think it’s kind of neat, actually.”

“You do?”

“Well, yeah. Mostly. I’d see mages practicing in the tower, sometimes. Usually they just studied from books when I was there, which is pretty boring, or listening to lectures. But every so often, I’d see a practicum. Most of the time the students sit around and look really focused, which isn’t any better, but every once in awhile, we’d see something really cool. It’s… well, it’s magic, you know? All these things which should be impossible, fire just appearing, or lights, and it turns everything you know on its end. It’s like it makes possibilities. There are rules and such, I know, but it’s like breaking the rules of everything you know about how the world works.”

Scraping the final pool of gravy from his bowl, Alistair sucked the last remnants off his spoon. Noting the odd silence, Alistair glanced up, spoon still in his mouth, too see the elf watching him with an unreadable expression.

“What?”

Raviathan shook his head as if to clear it then offered another portion of the stew. When Alistair hesitated, Raviathan said, “There’s enough for you to have another bowl.”

Considering the limitations of camp cooking, the stew wasn’t half bad. Much better than Alistair expected. Filling, too.

“What about mages and apostates, then?”

Alistair shrugged and blew on the first spoonful. “Living with the templars, you see what a danger magic can be. I don’t know. It’s not a life I wanted. The Circles, when they’re at their best, what they're supposed to do is to help mages learn how to use their power safely.”

“What they're supposed to do?” Raviathan prompted when Alistair trailed off.

“We talked about this. A bit. Sometimes templars go too far. And the mages…well mages need fundamentals and control that they can’t learn on their own.”

“But you didn’t want that life.”

“No.” Pondering the gentle tone from the elf, Alistair stirred the stew in his bowl before answering. His stomach still rumbled, but that would be alleviated in a few moments.

Alistair opened his mouth to continue when Leliana emerged from her tent. “That smells good.”

Though her tone tried for light, nobody was happy with the constant clammy weather, and her weary trudge to a rock by the fire spoke of how unrestful her sleep had been. She held out her bowl, shoulders slumped and head drooping. At least she tried to make the best out of the situation. 

A minute later, Sten joined the party, wordlessly holding out his bowl. He sat upright as ever, as unaffected by the rain as a duck. Alistair wondered if the giant ever tired. They were all dragging, yet Sten remained as aloof and stoic as the first day they had met. Was that a trait of all qunari, or was that just Sten? Considering all the condemnations from the Chantry, Sten didn’t seem to be the mindless savage the sisters warned them of. But he did murder that family, so there was that. Alistair didn’t know what to think.

“Continue with practice?” Raviathan asked Leliana once she finished with her breakfast. At her nod, the two left their bowls and wandered to the edge of camp. Raviathan stepped behind a tree and disappeared from sight. Leliana spun around once with her eyes closed then began searching for him.

Fascinated, Alistair watched as Leliana would cock her head, this way and that.

“There!” She pointed, and the elf appeared with a muttered curse. He trotted back to the edge of camp and the game began again.

Stomach thankfully full, Alistair worked on repairing his armor as best he could with their limited supplies while keeping half an eye on the two rogues. The long, metallic scrape of Sten’s whetstone against his blade joined with the morning noises of birds.

“There!”

Fifteen feet from his quarry, Raviathan appeared, lips pursed as he frowned in thought. He nodded once then set off towards his starting point. Alistair watched, fascinated, as he disappeared behind a tree. Leliana spied him again a few minutes later and so the game continued.

“How… how do you find him?” Alistair thought interrupting would result in a reprimand, but Maker, this was fascinating!

Hesitating, Leliana glanced back at him.

“Tell him.” In a swirl of shadow, Raviathan stood where there had only appeared air before. “It won’t distract you too much, will it?”

“Certainly not,” Leliana replied, a little mischief in her eyes.

The elf went back to the twin trees where he kept starting the game, and Alistair hurried over.

“You never learned to find… devenir l'ombre,” she waved her hands, “those cloaked in shadow? The hidden? I thought every guard learned some basic tricks.”

Alistair shook his head, his eyes wide as he searched the quiet woods. “No need. The mages can’t do that, though I’m sure many wished they could. Most came as children and never learned these kind of thief tricks.”

Leliana made a small sound of ascent at the comment. “It can be a useful skill, but it has limits. Since we’re in the wilderness, notice the flow of the wind. See how the ferns and trees move?” Alistair nodded, but it all seemed rather random to him. “Now look at how that fern is bent.”

Raviathan appeared where Leliana’s finger pointed. He nodded at her, a faint smile on his lips before retracing his steps back.

“This weather is particularly bad for this trick to work. Soft, muddy ground shows any steps but the most graceful. Fog or rain distort around the hidden, so look for odd gaps or shimmers when the weather is foul. Most keeps or fortified buildings will have a sounding board to catch the unaware. Something as simple as a creaky board will catch a trained guard’s attention.”

“And you’ve learned to… um... duven… yellow umbra? With all of those issues?”

“Duv… ,” Leliana frown cleared and she laughed. “Devenir l'ombre. Become like a shadow,” Leliana said. “Me? No. This is a most difficult trick to learn and one easily thwarted. Can’t be used in a crowd, takes enormous concentration. Only lazy elves who have evil intentions learn such trivial things.”

Raviathan appeared, glaring a storm at Leliana. She grinned at him.

“Oh blast it.”

Leliana chuckled as he returned to his starting place. “See? A second of lost concentration, and you are in a world of trouble.”

“So you don’t know this… um, method?” Alistair waved his hand at the air.

“There are other methods of being unseen that can be just as effective, better even in a city. With Rav’s style, he opens a door, and who would not notice that? Jostle an elbow, and not only is his concentration gone, he has alerted others to his presence. Of course he would be alone unless he is with an army of same-taught rogues. Appearing in the center of a pack of guards is a fantastic way to lose your head. And out here nature is more than willing to give up your secrets.”

“Huh. It looks like such a useful skill,” Alistair said, gesturing at the empty looking air. 

“Very much so, but not infallible.” 

“What do you do then?”

“Have you noticed that the best servants do not attract attention? They are everywhere, in the most intimate of places, yet they garner no consideration. Or the plain maiden at a dance who nobody seems to see as she moves through the shadows at the edge of the halls? An old woman with a basket going about her day, the one that doesn’t warrant a second glance? It is a different sort of invisibility.”

“You move so quietly, though.”

“Years of training, observation, and practice. Either path is not an easy one, but as a human, I have more options. I can be but don’t have to be a servant whereas the only things elves are good for is cleaning muddy boots and stealing from their masters.”

Alistair thought he saw a waver in the air. “There.”

Raviathan glared at the both of them before stomping back to the start. Feeling a bit of warmth bloom in his chest and an odd excitement he couldn’t name, Alistair shared a grin with Leliana before they returned to watching the wilderness. The teasing felt good. Companionable, even.

Before Raviathan disappeared, he took a moment to rotate his shoulders and rid himself of tension. A few deep breaths later, he stepped behind a tree and into the shadows.

“I don’t know that I could get away with that,” Alistair whispered to Leliana.

She sent a grin his way before her features settled into a more thoughtful expression. “I have noticed a bit of tension between you two.”

Bothered, Alistair shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about it. Speaking things aloud made them real, made the emotions come too close to the surface, and exposed raw wounds that could be forgotten in the dark. “We’re all tense, I suppose. Anyway, what else should I look for?”

A raven dove down at the camp, wings beating sharply as she neared the ground.

“I found him!” Morrigan said the instant she shifted from feathers.

“Found who?” No matter how many times Alistair had seen her shift, he was still stunned by the magic she used. All the training the templars and mages went through to understand magic, and this ability had never been whispered as a possibility.

“Witherfang!” Morrigan said, disgusted at his obtuseness.

“Where?” Raviathan appeared, excitement making his already large eyes huge. Praise the Maker! After three fortnights of wading through the blasted forest with all its traps and twists, they found him! Witherfang, the White Wolf. Raviathan’s heart started to speed with adrenaline. 

“To the east, near a canyon. If we hurry, ‘tis a good place to set an ambush.”

“Go!” Raviathan called.

They snatched their packs and raced after the witch. “Is Witherfang alone?”

“No.” Morrigan cast a glance at Raviathan but did not slow her stride. “He’s in a pack. I saw seven.”

Outnumbered. Even at their party’s best, the wolves moved too quickly, too cohesively for their disjointed group to be effective. With the senses the wolves had, and their familiarity with the forest, this fight would be near impossible for Raviathan’s group to win. Morrigan’s idea of an ambush would be fantastic, but Raviathan knew there would be no sneaking up on these predators.

What to do to even the odds? “A canyon you said? What are its dimensions? Can we have archers hidden? Is it straight or curved?”

The best they could hope for would be to narrow the field of battle, get a choke point.

“A small ravine. They are on the far end. Wide enough for five men at the center, two at the end close to us. Lots of trees and brush at the top of both sides, but the base is clear save a few stones.”

“How deep is the canyon? What more can you tell me?”

Morrigan hesitated as she considered. “’Tis about three men high? The walls are steep. Made from rock.”

“Leliana, you and I will take the cliff sides and use our bows. Alistair and Sten will take the mouth. Morrigan, can you scare them into the canyon or would it be better to lead them? Never mind. We won’t be able to hide our presence. Try to lead them in.”

Maker save them. This couldn’t even be called a plan. Fires, he had led children in more organized raids back in the alienage. Would they all die in this fool’s mission? Why had he agreed to this at all?

His mind stuttered over the insanity of the situation while his legs kept propelling him forward. Another fifteen minutes of crashing through the forest, loud enough to wake sleeping bears, and Morrigan pointed ahead.

“Should be just over there.”

“Get into positions.” Raviathan hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. “Venger, go with Sten and Alistair.”

Sten gave him a baleful glare, likely feeling the absurdity of his commands as much as Raviathan did, but the giant trotted off without comment. Raviathan watched his back for a second. The qunari’s fatalism at least made him obedient in the face of abject failure.

As Raviathan moved to take the right side of the canyon’s cliffs, he wondered at the determinism that made men fight in battles. Men stood against the horde of darkspawn, knowingly facing their deaths, yet they did not back down. Raviathan grasped at tree trunks and roots to climb up the steeper sections of the slope. What compelled men to obey when they knew they could die? And why was he thinking about the compulsions of leadership when he needed to think about the fight?

Dark wings spread out as Morrigan soared across the canyon. A howl broke the peace of the morning, an unearthly sound that shivered through Raviathan’s nerves and sent a heavy rock of dread into his stomach. They were going to die.

With trembling hands, Raviathan strung his bow and set a few arrows into to the ground for easy access. He caught sight of Leliana moving through the forest on the other side of the canyon, her form flashing in and out of view between the pines.

Would she live? If Alistair and Sten fell, would she be fast enough to evade the wolves before they set upon her? No. She was as inexperienced in the forest as the rest of their mongrel of a party. At best, they might turn her into one of their own, a werewolf to suffer agony and rage.

The sizzle of magic flared, energy Raviathan felt as the air turned slippery to his mage senses. Morrigan’s magic felt like the swamp she came from, that contradictory mix of creation and decay.

A trio of howls went up, echoing to sound like an army of wolves. The eerie sound burned Raviathan’s blood, with fear, with excitement? His arms itched to be used. His vision quickening as he took in more of the world around him. He could feel his heart pumping too quickly, his world becoming bright.

The raven flew down the canyon. She landed as a human, turned to let another bolt of energy loose, then ran to take a safe place behind the warriors.

The werewolves came. So fast. They loped with a grace that belied their twisted forms. Not human. Not wolf. In between and tortured, but so fierce.

An arrow landed in the side of one. The werewolf yipped in response but did not slow. Raviathan’s arrow caught another in the thigh, a lucky shot considering their speed. The werewolf’s leg gave out, but the creature continued at the same pace a second later. More arrows. Leliana hit another while Raviathan’s second arrow missed.

Swiftrunner had the lead. His long arm swiped out like a whip at the warriors. Raviathan cursed. The trees and uneven cliff blocked his view.

Where was Witherfang? No white wolf to be seen anywhere.

Grabbing his remaining arrows, Raviathan raced further up the canyon wall to try and get a better angle and see if Witherfang held further back. Four werewolves. Hadn’t Morrigan said seven? Miscounted? Were those werewolves further away? Gone to get reinforcements?

Just as Raviathan’s mind accepted the dreaded idea of a trap, an impact at his back made him fly across a small clearing. He twisted, tried to turn to lessen his crash as he scraped over bushes. Hard, wooden limbs tore at him. His shoulders slammed into a tree, the brunt of impact mediated by armor but it left his head ringing with shock.

Raviathan tried to get his bearings, the world spinning drunkenly around him.

Fear laced into him as he saw white fangs in a red mouth bearing down at his face. He got his bow up against the wolf’s neck. The two struggled, the wolf shifting to snap at him in violent jerks, Raviathan fighting in panic to keep the thin ironbark between him and pain. His arms shook against the wolf’s power. Hot breath caressed his face as he stared into that red mouth.

Red on white. Helpless.

Protect, protect, protect. Blood on skin.

The crack of ironbark as the bow broke. Helpless.

Strange black and gold eyes, eyes like an eclipse, stared at him with rage and more. Fear. A soul as ancient as the forest bored into his own.

His people, his pack, and he would chew off the face of any who came to harm them.

Like a flash of lighting to the brain, he understood. Wolf. What it meant to be wolf.

Family. Structure, relations, and hierarchy, that he understood, felt it as part of who he was. The importance of cubs and the health of all the family. The need for play, how it taught and bound them together in love. Territory, home, its boundaries, and the necessity to journey for food. How starvation and pain could drive a wolf to excess. The responsibility of leadership. What drove a wolf to wander alone. He understood this all as this knowledge had been his entire life. He had thought of wolves as savage dogs, rabid, but they had never been domestic. They were pure to their nature, pure as their ancestors, and had never lost that ancient knowledge of what they were. What he was.

He understood!

And just as suddenly the forest was his as well. Sight, sound, and smell. The forest lay before him like a tapestry, all his to know. Enthralled with his new senses--of soft grass under his paws and scent-rich air ruffling his fur--he threw back his head and sang at the ecstasy of it. Hearing birds, knowing exactly where they were and what their songs meant. He could hear them from a mile away as they searched, marked their own little territories with sound, sought company, and warned of danger.

In an instant, he knew the trail of forest creatures, the raccoon who had ventured near in search of food and had been terrified of the wolves, the pregnant fox in the den hiding until the conflict was over, the squirrels afraid but curious in their trees, and so much more. His wolven sight remained just as sharp as his elven eyes but a little grayer, other colors stronger, vision attuned to movement. Creatures shimmered when they moved, catching his attention.

The forest was his in that he knew it. He felt the patches of sickness where the Blight encroached. He sensed the unease where the Veil was thin, where spirits lost their way in wandering beyond the Veil. The torment of these spirits, trapped in a foreign world where all the rules they understood were suddenly gone, howled to his senses. These spirits had longed for this sense of life but too late they realized this world was a prison. The totality of the prisons were driving them mad when all they wanted was life.

With the scents he understood his pack. He could smell their emotions, sense the beating of their hearts, feel them as though seeing their souls. Alistair’s crushing loneliness. He was a beta, insecure and needing a leader, desperate for one. He could be more if only he could believe in himself. Sten. He was broken inside. Raviathan could smell it on him, how he felt lost and wavered between rage and depression. His balance was gone causing that oscillation. Leliana’s pain. She had been hurt and didn’t trust anyone with her broken heart. She had turned to faith to fill that pain, for something that wouldn’t betray her.

Venger’s total being was devotion. To him. It was such a painful thing to know, that Raviathan’s death would mean the same for the dog. That all of Venger’s happiness and joy was bound to him, that he was happy only when his master was near. It made Raviathan want to weep. No one, especially him, deserved such faith.

The complexities of Morrigan became clearer. In some ways she was the purist in who she was, not bent by society into a role, but she had been twisted since birth on a path she did not understand except that danger lay in that direction. He sensed her own heart of magic, and he was surprised to see how dim it was in comparison to his own, how small and somehow… lifeless, but there were thick twisted brambles, grey and dense, grown around to protect that heart. She had been damaged.

Then the werewolves, so full of rage as to be mindless, but they didn’t want to be. The curse drove them, and they were trapped in it. Their fear choked the air as real to his senses as the wind or earth. They would die to protect the one thing that eased their rage, all so they could remember who they were. The rage took over everything, and they were lost in it. No identity. No self. The relief of feeling their own minds return had been excruciating, enough to sacrifice their lives and the lives of those they loved to keep that shred of their humanity. Raviathan felt such pity for them. Not human, not wolf, and trapped in a pain that made them want to gnaw off their own legs to be free.

A shimmer caught his attention. The great white wolf before him backed away. The wolf whined, shocked and uncertain. Raviathan understood this one, too. Witherfang had not expected the elf he had attacked to become wolf, and never so completely.

Those eyes, amber and black, showed him the truth. Witherfang was the forest. The spirit, just as trapped as all the other spirits in this realm, held on by necessity alone. The spirit’s mind had been wrenched into consciousness and bound to this form with all the savagery of a rape. Bound, Witherfang had been frenzied in unthinking madness for decades as it struggled and finally regained some sense of what it was. Raviathan stepped forward, uttering a low ‘wroof’ to the spirit, a sound indicating help to be given.

The great white wolf backed away in confusion, uttering a low mournful howl. At the sound, the werewolves fell in retreat.

From below one of the werewolves gave a guttural cry, “Fall back! Protect the Lady!”

In seconds, the pack raced into the woods. Raviathan knew their path, where their den lay deep in the earth. No more would they be able to hide.

Taking one last long breath to fill his lungs with the perfect living cycle of the forest, Raviathan changed back. He had to shake his head a few times trying to clear it. After the intensity of sensation a moment ago, his own regained senses seemed at once dull yet familiar. He looked down the small ravine to see that Sten and Venger had given chase, a futile effort. The werewolves’ bounding leaps sped them into the forest’s deep in an instant.

Raviathan picked up his bow, cracked and useless. He would have cursed the creature before, but now he only sighed in regret that he hadn’t understood earlier.

The forest’s terrain settled in his mind with the ease of a long walked path. Raviathan picked his way to the canyon mouth were the others rested.

Demanding, Sten turned on him. “And where were you? I expected more support.”

In response Raviathan held up his cracked bow. Sten nodded and sheathed his sword. Alistair blinked in surprise at the bow. “What happened?”

“I was attacked, knocked on my back. I had to use the bow as defense or have my face chewed off.” Despite the epiphany that continued to rock him, Raviathan’s irritation surfaced. He was getting sick of all his weapons breaking and armor ravaged to uselessness. The ironbark bow had been old, probably third-hand by the time the Dalish were willing to part with it to an outsider, but Maker’s ass! What he wouldn’t give for a decent weapon.

Trotting down the hillock that made up the other side of the canyon, Leliana joined them. Two werewolves lay dead, the rest escaped. Raviathan stared at a werewolf arm, severed just above the elbow, and wondered at the cost of it all. Whoever that person or creature had been, he or she was permanently maimed, probably dying, and for what? The Dalish had lost their lives to the werewolves, so he was not inclined to feel guilt for the defense of life, but he did feel sympathy for both sides as he hadn’t before.

Saddened, Raviathan wondered how much of his father’s pacifist ideals had rubbed off on him in the last few years. His mother reveled in adventure, had missed the excitement of a good chase, only putting those activities aside when her family took precedence.

“Injuries?”

Sten and Alistair came forth with Venger trailing behind. Leliana left to retrieve arrows, and Morrigan took lookout.

Sten had taken the worst of it. Raviathan removed the cuisse from his right thigh and part of his upper armor where a werewolf had knocked him down and thrashed at his chest. The wounds were relatively shallow thanks to the armor, but the qunari bled from a long cut starting on the left temple. Raviathan cleaned the wounds thoroughly, mindful that the curse could still be transferred.

Maker, now that he knew Witherfang saved the werewolves from their rage, killing the spirit seemed an anathema. Yet Witherfang held the key to ending the curse. A death to save the minds of many? The lives of many others?

Alistair had some scratches and a bite on his sword arm. His wrenched shield arm had been re-injured to the point that holding a shield would do damage. Magical healing could speed up the process, but the constant fighting and re-injuring kept them all in poor condition. Alistair needed to rest the arm for a few days, a few weeks had they the luxury, but considering the bashing the party had taken from the forest and its creatures, rest seemed as likely as fish learning to speak.

Venger had fared the best of all with numerous but shallow scratches. At least he was in no danger from catching the curse. Raviathan called, “Morrigan. They’re ready for you.”

Morrigan came over and waved her hand in a grand gesture ending with raising her staff to the sky and emitting a flashy but meaningless light show. Raviathan tried not to roll his eyes at the drama while he performed the little hand gesture hidden by his healer’s pack that channeled the power into knitting flesh.

Emerald flames danced over Sten’s wounds for a moment and the bronze giant let out a breath in relief, the only sign he allowed that he had been in pain. Though the qunari hated magic, he accepted this part readily enough, Raviathan noted with irony. Sten packed his armor and left to the other side of the canyon to repair what he could.

Morrigan and Raviathan repeated the process for Alistair and Venger. Once finished Venger padded over, shoving his massive shoulder into Raviathan’s chest and looking up at him in adoration. Raviathan grinned, hugging the dog’s neck and scratching behind an ear. He whispered quietly, “No fooling you, huh.” Venger gave a wide doggy smile with a ‘ragh’ of agreement.

“Leliana, Venger, can you see about supplementing our rations? The rest of us will set up fortifications for camp.”

“So early?” asked Alistair.

Raviathan shrugged. “You need to rest your arm. With the werewolves so near it makes sense to take time for added precaution.”

“Then it should not be so close to their base,” Sten said.

“This forest is their home,” Raviathan said. “They’ll know where we are no matter where we go. At least here we have a defensible position.”

Once the party members broke up to set up camp, Raviathan double-checked to make sure Alistair, Sten, and Leliana were occupied. Hiding his hand gestures, he completed the spell that would hasten Alistair’s healing from a month to a week. Emerald light flashed in an arc over the templar’s shoulder and fell away in small spheres of fading embers that drifted and died. The shocked man jumped as he stared at his arm then looked around wildly before his gaze settled on Morrigan.

“Morrigan. Stop picking on Alistair,” Raviathan called out in annoyance.

The witch frowned at him only to find a mischievous glint in the elf’s eyes. Alistair eyed Morrigan in alarm. “What did she do? Wha-What did you do?” He turned around a few times trying to look at his back. “I’m not going to turn into a toad am I?”

Morrigan smirked once she caught on to the joke. “You, a small, clammy, mucus-covered amphibian that croaks all night? 'Twould be an improvement to your regular chatter.”

Raviathan stood up to stretch. Everything back to normal.


	51. Eyes of Wolves - Descent

Raviathan eyed the back of Alistair’s head. The templar rolled up his tent, oblivious to the scrutiny he received.

While Raviathan had decades of practice hiding his magic, this misadventure into the wilderness tested him far beyond anything that he had experienced in the alienage. Back home he could work in secret as long as he kept his head down and a watchful eye out for rumors. Nobody outside his family knew of his abilities, and Valendrian as well as many of the adults protected him for his skills in healing, which also kept him safe from templars.

Now? All he had was a fellow apostate to take the fall for him, and with the light of revelation, Raviathan could no longer justify that particular cowardice. Just because she was willing to accept all the risk didn’t mean he was right in exploiting her unwillingness--inability even--to hide.

That still left the question: what to do about Alistair? Leaving him behind or sending him on another mission wouldn’t do anymore, and Raviathan could no longer continue as he had been.

If anyone had seen him yesterday… Maker’s blood, that would be a disaster. Raviathan hadn’t even told Morrigan about his breakthrough. He didn’t know why he kept the change a secret. After all her work to teach him, she deserved to know. Certainly Raviathan felt pride at the accomplishment. In the past he couldn’t wait to tell Solyn when he had discovered a new ability, to preen at his accomplishments. Having to keep his learning quiet around his father chafed horribly during the last few years. Like Morrigan, he would never be ashamed of his magic.

Yet something about the change felt too intimate to share. Becoming wolf changed him in ways he was still trying to unravel. He was wolf. After a lifetime of hating wolves for attacking the elves who traveled between alienages, of thinking of wolves as no different from bandits in that respect, or driving up the price of food because of slaughtered livestock, on seeing how they bonded with the taint more than any other animal… after all that, and now his perception could never be the same again.

The consequences of that spell reached far beyond a change in form, for the wolf inside did not flinch from the truth he had gleaned. His view of the world shifted as well, beyond animal, beyond elf, he had become a creature of Fade creation.

Strange how one word, _wolf_ , meant each individual wolf and all wolves at once. From the distilled memory of all beings from all the ages, the reality of experience, along with all the collective histories, stories, and fables, all became bound in an ever-shifting and ever eternal concept more powerful than any one animal.

In a single moment, the wolf of the Dalish, the wolf of the Tevinter, the wolf from ancient elves to modern humans, an ideal blended with the perspectives of hunters, farmers, travelers, and vagabonds, came into focus and Raviathan had known. Raviathan had become the Fade ideal as filtered through his own identity, two things combined to form more than the whole of individual parts.

No wonder Morrigan couldn’t articulate how the spell worked. She learned in the bud of her youth, full of feeling and wonder before the discipline of magic took over her later training. She had been like a child prodigy who could mimic music but not understand the complexities of composition or depth of feeling that took true mastery. Such a spell required intuition and concepts of idealization that words could not accomplish, only lead to.

For far too long, Raviathan had been fooling himself. He hadn’t wanted to be the leader of this pack, and whining about not having a choice in who ran with him or how he ended up in this position could no longer hold. He wasn’t sure what he should do, but denying responsibility was childish beyond reproach. With injuries and dangers that had hounded them daily, his secret was crippling all of their chances for survival. His long ingrained habits chaining him for fear of a templar.

Nibbling his lower lip, Raviathan finished packing his equipment. Alistair kept surprising him. He thought back to the Tower of Ishal and how Alistair treated the nameless mage who died that night. Alistair had been sympathetic and not said one harsh word to the man. No one could be that good an actor for so long, nor had he reason to lie, and Alistair couldn’t be both incompetent and a master liar. Maker’s blood, how Raviathan had wanted to believe the worst beyond all evidence and reason.

He deserved this shame. The first time on his own, with real responsibility, and Raviathan had chosen cowardliness and paranoid fantasies when he had a real enemy to face. 

And those stupid jokes of Alistair’s! Most of the time Raviathan wanted to roll his eyes or scowl, but more often than not, he was having a harder time not cracking a smile.

Yet… yet if Raviathan was wrong and misjudged Alistair’s tolerance of apostates, the consequences would be life stuck in the mage prison. If those templars didn’t kill him outright, that is. What would they do to Morrigan? She could possibly escape in animal form, but Alistair knew of those abilities and could warn the others. Raviathan never had asked Alistair what the templars did with apostates. Children could be molded easily, had little knowledge of the ways of magic, but templars were not so forgiving of adults.

Solyn.

Dried blood staining her legs. Rotting in garbage. She never practiced blood magic. Her life had been dedicated to healing magic so that she could help her kin. True, she knew some defensive spells.

And more.

Raviathan thought back to his lessons, most of which focused on spirit magic when he was first learning, then in the creative field. That spell to turn one’s energy against them—it was a grisly spell, but not because the magic itself was evil or dark. The effects were extreme, but the spell did not torture a person or use blood magic. Indeed, a fire spell could leave a person with lifelong scars or in agony for days before dying. The spirit inversion spell killed the person outright, messily, but not with added pain.

None of the magic Solyn knew warranted what the templars had done to her. As evil as that shit lord Vaughan had been, Raviathan didn’t torture on principle, even the bastards who deserved it, and knew that Solyn didn’t torture either. That was for lords and templars.

Still, what to do about Alistair?

Well, maybe Raviathan would be able to continue to hide his magic until he had other Wardens to secure his position. Just because the elf treaty had unexpected entanglements didn’t mean the other treaties would be as difficult.

~o~O~o~

“Into the belly of the beast, then.” Alistair had his hands on his hips as he stared at the crumbling ruins that led under a hillock.

“There is no other way?” Leliana asked.

“Venger and I searched last night,” Raviathan said. “The wolves have another entrance they use as their main, through a plateau of ruins not far from here, but they’ve bound the door tight. This still has their scent and is probably a back door for emergencies.”

“Their scent?” Sten watched Raviathan from the side of his eyes.

“According to Venger and Morrigan, yes.” Raviathan ignored the qunari’s dark glare. Did the qunari suspect him or was this distaste for Morrigan’s magic? Raviathan may be paranoid, but not without cause. Years of hiding, further sharpened by the death of his aunt, made him watchful. All this time he had worried about Alistair, but he never considered what the qunari view of magic would be, only that the giant did not seem to care for it.

Grit crumbled from the cracked roof above. A tightness constricted around Raviathan’s chest, like he couldn’t get enough air. Fear of the ruins that appeared to crumble before their eyes and trap them all in a suffocating death, or fear of discovery? New insight didn’t change years of ingrained terrors. Still, whatever qunaris thought, it couldn’t be worse than how mages were treated in the rest of Thedas.

Picking his way with care lest he break an ankle, Raviathan led the rest down the loose rubble embankment and across the grand entrance fit for a palace. He and Venger hadn’t spent much time in here last night, just enough to know the passage led deeper into the den.

Dust hung heavily in the air, making the sunlight that shone through the exposed roof seem solid enough to touch. Thick webbing and animal leavings covered the cavernous chamber. Though Raviathan hadn’t thought too much of the state of the elven ruins he fell into a fortnight before, the debris here gave him pause. Why hadn’t the other ruins had more dust and grime? Old magic kept animals out, but insects as well? What magics did the ancient elves wield? And how had those magics stayed true for so many centuries without anyone to look after them?

A thickened system of centuries-old roots allowed them access to the lower chamber with relative ease. Sten and Alistair both slipped before catching themselves, the armor covering their boots scoring long, pale wounds into the roots.

“Will this structure hold?” asked Sten.

“I wish you hadn’t said that,” Alistair replied as he glanced about nervously, but he sounded resigned rather than actually fearful.

Raviathan shrugged. “The wolves live here and have for decades. Many buildings of old survive. Why shouldn’t this?”

Sten let out a low grumble. “Dwarven made structures, maybe.”

Raviathan cast a questioning look at the others. He had no experience in this field other than the few ruins that dotted the Ferelden countryside, and they seemed common enough.

“There’s Ostagar and the Tower of Ishal,” Alistair said.

“And do they have tons of earth and stone weighing them down, or roots prying them apart?” Sten asked.

“Er… well, no. I suppose not.” Alistair pushed at a large chunk that had once been a pillar with his foot. “Doesn’t…” Alistair trailed off.

“Does not what, Alistair?” Leliana asked.

“Well. I’m no expert, of course. This doesn’t seem Tevinter made, does it?”

Leliana tilted her head as she examined the large chamber.

“Quite a few ruins are still strong in the Korcari Wilds,” Morrigan said. “There have been many who have wandered this land, including the ancient elves, or so the poet spirits say.”

Raviathan ran a hand over the crumbled pillar. What did he know of buildings? The alienage consisted of ramshackle structures piled anywhere an elf could find a space. He’d seen a few human inns and houses on the journey with Duncan, but they were nothing grand. Ostagar looked big. That’s all he remembered as far as architectural details were concerned. The ruin he had fallen into held the lovingly-rendered details of the ancient elves, with graceful arches, which lent an airy feeling even though it was buried inside a mountain. This? He wouldn’t even know what to compare it to.

“Time is wasting.” With that, Raviathan strode to the double door at the opposite side of the chamber.

Dust, dust, and more dust coated the labyrinthine passages as the group made their way further down into the depths of the ruin. After a sneezing fit, Alistair tied a cloth over his nose and mouth, an idea Leliana and Raviathan adopted. Alistair and Raviathan held torches while Morrigan kept a steady magelight to illuminate their path. Scuttling insects scrambled for cover under piles of rubble that blocked off some passages or cleared a wall that lead to more winding rooms. Raviathan wondered why this ruin didn’t have that claustrophobic feel that other buildings held for him.

In fact, Raviathan couldn’t help but admire the designs that remained even over the years of neglect. Scrub the floors and walls and this place would shine, become a beacon of lost elven history. Truly, the ruin was a marvel.

The sweeping staircase led to a large, round room with a domed ceiling and raised dais inscribed with star-like patterns visible around heaps of rags. Corridors lead out in multiple directions, most cut short with rubble or breakages, but a few passages remained.

A gasp from Leliana sharpened their attention. A shift of light, pale with a touch of silvery blue, moved along a far wall. Obscured at first by Morrigan’s magelight, the figure revealed the form of a young elven boy.

“Maker’s breath.” Raviathan’s heart beat faster at this faint remnant of history. He moved as fast as he dared, unsure of this telltale magic. To his surprise, the ghost’s eyes locked on him. Not like in the forest with the ghost soldiers, Raviathan thought. Not a repeat of an event, trapped by emotional impressions left on the Fade. No, this boy was… alive, in some way. He reacted to this world, something of the ghost’s mind lingering to the spirit.

Amazing.

“Mamae? Mamae na mara san.”

The boy looked about, clearly terrified. Silvery tracks on his face marked a trail of tears. He hunched down, hugging as tightly to the wall as he could.

Raviathan cocked his head at the words. Well, shit.

Did mamae mean mother? Sounded close enough, and that would make sense from a frightened child. The rest? Raviathan glanced back at Leliana to see if she had any clue, but she shrugged helplessly.

Raviathan tried to approach, slowly and with as little threat as possible. “Um. Lethallan?” No, that wasn’t right. “Len? F-falon?”

“Ma halani! Inna em le’fal’leon!”

Oh Maker, what was the word for danger? Or help? Or anything that would be useful? Never mind Raviathan felt a fool for being an elf who had no clue about the elven language. He held out a hand in hopes that this silent communication could achieve what words could not.

The boy looked about, uttered a heartrending cry of despair and fear, and fled down a corridor. His ghostly form raced through the boulders that now blocked the way for corporeal bodies.

“Wonder what that was about,” Alistair said.

Groans wrenched from the Fade echoed around the cavernous hall.

“On guard!” Raviathan had his blades out in an instant.

The rags around the room twitched of their own accord. Maker, they were everywhere! Their path back to the door was blocked by five skeletons, all with hateful white lights pinned on them. Raviathan spun around to get an estimation of their foes. They had a chance to barrel their way through the forming skeletons by the stairs and form a choke point with the doorway, but with more rising about, Raviathan didn’t want to chance fighting on two fronts.

“Quick, form a circle!” That they had practiced, at least. Morrigan moved to the center where she could cast her magic uninterrupted. Alistair and Venger moved to Raviathan’s left and right, respectively, with Sten and Leliana closing the circle. While Leliana’s skills with blades was rudimentary, arrows were next to useless in these close quarters and against half-formed beings.

The hissing of the skeletons set Raviathan’s hair on edge. No tongues or vocal cords existed anymore. The spirits screeched, a sound carrying across the Veil, making the sounds echo and vibrate through Raviathan like a sour violin chord. He felt them in two realms, the sound piercing and haunting at once.

His main sword swept out in an upward arc to crack the skeleton’s ribs while his dagger caught the monster’s claw-like hand. His dagger slipped through bones instead of catching on flesh as Raviathan had trained. Adrenaline-sharpened reflexes took over as Raviathan’s mind went blank. He lunged with his left shoulder, smashing into the bones, and pulling his sword away to ready another attack. Teeth snapped at his neck, just getting a pinching hold when Raviathan pushed out with his hip and bent to evade the still sharp jaws.

Claws raked along the armor protecting his side, and Raviathan fell in a tangle of leg bones. He kicked up at the looming monster, the cold lights bearing down on him.

Fire! Burn these creatures!

The templars will get you!

Raviathan gritted his teeth as he dropped his dagger to hold his sword by the hilt and one gauntleted hand, anything to keep those too wide jaws from biting off his face. He felt bony hands grasping his legs, knew he would feel pain any second when the skeletons bore down on him. He kicked, struggled, anything to get them off.

Venger grasped the skeleton by the neck, shook the animated bones in a death rattle, wrenching the blasted thing apart. Raviathan scooted back, away from danger, enough to get to his feet. He whipped his sword to cut off the arm of a skeleton set on Venger, kicked its breastbone as the thing screeched at him, and followed with a foot smashing down on the brittle skull.

Wave after wave continued to gather around them. Raviathan didn’t remember retrieving his dagger, but his defensive blade was in his hand as he hacked and hacked at the false visages of death. He felt heavy, barely able to raise his arms in time to fend off attack after attack. Maker, let it end.

Alistair cried out in pain and staggered back into the circle. He clutched at his side, his sword clattering on the stone floor but kept his shield up. A great swipe of Sten’s sword broke the skeleton apart, bones flying in an arc. Breathing heavily, the group stopped to assess the situation. No more crawling bones. No more ghostly lights glinting in the desiccated skulls.

“Burn the bones.” Raviathan panted out the order. He needed a moment, his hands shaking from the battle. All he wanted to do was collapse and rest. Give him an hour or three, some water and decent food, a little rest from all this death.

The others moved to comply with his orders. Though Raviathan wanted to drop his blades, he slid them back into place. The effort to pick them up later would be worse, he knew, but oh how he wanted to rest.

“Here,” Raviathan said, a hand at Alistair’s back to guide him to the crumbled half wall formation that bisected a sort of altar-like space from the rest of the room. “Easy. Have a seat.”

A groan escaped from Alistair as he gingerly sank down. He remained doubled over as Raviathan undid part of his armor to reach the wounded area. Alistair hissed as Raviathan palpated the bruised skin. Raviathan sighed. “Broken.”

He sat in front of Alistair, frowning to himself as he thought. “Armor’s no good anymore. Even if we could get it repaired, I don’t know that it’s going to be any use. You also need time to heal.”

“Trying to get rid of me again?”

The bitterness in Alistair’s tone slapped Raviathan. He straightened, looking at Alistair as if for the first time. “No. If I was trying to get rid of you, I wouldn’t care about your armor, now would I?”

Alistair scoffed, winced as the movement sent fresh pain into his side. He mumbled something that Raviathan couldn’t make out.

“What?”

Bent over, arm protectively covering his ribs, Alistair glared up. “Why won’t you bind my ribs?”

Raviathan tilted his head. “Why would I do that? I’ve told you before, binding will only keep you from breathing deeply, and in these wet conditions, you’ll be likely to get pneumonia.”

“When I trained with the templars, the healer would bind our ribs.”

“Bah.” Annoyed, Raviathan waved a hand as if shooing a fly. “Then they were idiots.”

A pout greeted that statement.

“Alistair, I promise you. I’ve treated your injuries as I would my own kin.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

Raviathan half rose, a dismissal forming on his lips, when he stopped. He sat back down and gave Alistair a hard look. Alistair wasn’t sure what that look meant, but the hostility he expected wasn’t there, not really. More like… distrust? Whatever. Pain throbbed in his side, a persistent ache that sharpened like a knitting needle being stabbed into his side each time he breathed. Tired and hurt, he was done playing games, done trying to guess the elf’s intentions.

The silence between them grew uncomfortable enough that Alastair was about to leave when Raviathan bit his lips, his expression turning inward. “Alistair, I know I’ve been unfair to you.”

That caught him off guard. Alistair sat, waiting.

Raviathan let out a long breath, a hand raking his hair. “I… I have reasons.” He finally met Alistair’s gaze, and the look in those large, strange eyes struck something in Alistair. Vulnerable and sad and wary, and Alistair couldn’t fathom what he’d done to cause that look. The fire from the bones added new layers of refracted light, cool sea and burning flames.

Instead of continuing, Raviathan gestured at the burning pile. “I don’t suppose this is the place to talk. Not with dead things attacking us. Or ghosts wandering around.”

“At least the ghost didn’t attack. Wonder what he was saying.”

A sad half-smile tugged at one side of Raviathan’s mouth. “Almost seemed like he was warning us.”

“Friendly ghosts?” Or should I be more surprised that the boy was a friendly elf?

The fire dimmed, and Raviathan stared at the pile. The bones popped and cracked, shuffling as they resettled. “I will explain, Alistair, when there’s time. Best we get going for now.”

In a strange way, Alistair didn’t want to end the conversation. The moment had been brief, but he felt as if something had passed between the two of them. He loathed to go back to indifferent or hostile.

“How are you feeling? Do you want to remain at the cave entrance, or do you think you can fight?”

Maker, no more fighting, not until he had a chance to heal. Funny thing was, when he was fighting, he didn’t notice his ribs as much. The pain remained but was dulled somehow. It was only after the fighting that the aching came back with a vengeance. “Not in top condition, but I think I can hold my own.”

Raviathan gave his shoulder a light pat as he left to join the others. Alistair turned away to hide his grimace of pain as he refastened his armor. How much more would they have to face in this tomb? What made this wolf so special, anyway? Something fishy was going on, that’s for sure. 

Fishy. Wolves. Did wolves eat fish? They would, wouldn’t they, but then how did they catch fish? Not like they could hold fishing poles in their paws or anything. Could werewolves? 

Alistair gave himself a mental shake. Need to focus. So far this ruin had proved just as difficult as the forest. The light-headed feeling that had been creeping in on him wasn’t helping. Not at all. At least he wasn’t getting one of those headaches again. Maker, he hated those, the way they felt like nails driving into his skull. 

He could hold his own. Alistair finished with his armor but left his shield buckled to his pack. The treaties. That’s what mattered, and he’d do his all to do right by Duncan and the Wardens. 

The ruins. He could do this. Steeling himself with renewed purpose, Alistair joined the others. The wolves couldn’t live that far underground, right? Probably just a passage or two and they’d be facing wolf-breath himself. No problem.

~o~O~o~

Leliana screamed as a blast of fire shot up in front of her. She jumped back, tripped over the depressed floor trigger and fell on her backside. The arrow aimed at her head sailed over to clatter against the stone wall. She didn’t slow but continued her retreat, scrambling backwards using her hands and feet.

“Fuck!” Raviathan yelled as another trap triggered. “Get out of the room! Everyone! Back up and get out of here!” He grabbed Leliana’s arm, hauling her with him as they raced to the corridor, Sten’s broad back blocking the way as he dashed out. Raviathan itched with nerves to have his enemies behind him. He was sure, any second now, an arrow would thud into his back, pierce his lung, and that would be his end. He hated Leliana for the instant she blocked his escape and left him open to that dreaded arrow. Fucking move!

“There!” Raviathan started for the side passage that ended in a pile of rubble and thick roots. Weren’t they several floors down by now? How deep did roots grow? “Let them come to us. They won’t be able to pick us off with bows here.”

They heard the dry click of bones on stone, tap tap tap, when the skeletons closed in. As Raviathan predicted, the skeletons’ bows were useless in the tight confines. Snarling, he lashed out with his sword and dagger. Rib bones cracked, spines snapped as he vented his frustration and helplessness on the long-dead bodies before him.

The skeletons were smaller than human-sized, and he knew he was hacking at the bones of ancient elves. A part of him sickened at the idea. These cursed spirits used the bodies of his kin, violated their remains, robbed these bones of any last dignity owed to the dead. His own kin, turned to horrors.

Not allowed to scream!

Curse all these damned spirits and send them back into the Fade!

Raviathan’s lungs beat for air as he stared at the bones scattered before him. He tried to work out his feelings, the swirling chaos of hate and rage and frustration and the worst kind of sorrow. He hated these dead things, the bones that attacked him, and knew the bones themselves were nothing without some spirit to animate them, that his rage should go to the spirits. The cold, white lights no longer gleamed from the skulls, and without their presence, Raviathan couldn’t focus his anger on the spirits, only the physical vestiges, the poor, long dead bones that should have been given the final peace of fire.

Hadn’t his people suffered enough?

His first kill entered his mind, that blubbery cook of Vaughn’s. The man’s bowels had loosened at death leaving the stench of shit in the air. He and Soris had to push the body under the table with their feet as the man was too heavy to shove.

There was no dignity in death.

A few times Solyn had taken Raviathan out of the alienage past the curfew. They had stayed hidden in a storage room in a warehouse, waiting in silence as the hours passed. The sun slowly set as they read, Raviathan with a sinking stone in his stomach and Solyn impassive as a statue in her meditations. He knew what her stoicism meant. It was the same walling away of emotions she used when she operated, whenever something difficult needed to be done.

His mother taught him to hide his expressions behind a mask, but Solyn was teaching him to become a stone.

When the last shuffling of humans left, and the warehouse left empty, they crept into the hallway. Solyn relied on Raviathan’s training to get them through the building undetected by any stray human who might have remained. They ended up in a back room secured by a number of locks. Raviathan worked them open, the stone in his stomach a heavy weight, revolting at him for what they were about to do.

In the room bodies lay, three of them, two shems and a dwarf. In the morning, the bodies would be taken to the pyre for those who left this mortal coil without family to speak for them. Their blood had been drained in preparation to make their burning easier.

Solyn pulled back the shroud of the dwarf. The man lay naked and cold, skin slightly blue even in the warm torchlight. Hair covered his face, his arms and legs, his chest. Long, crinkled hairs as long as Raviathan’s pinky finger scattered over his rounded belly leading to a curly knotted line that marked a path to a thick mat of rust fuzz over his genitals. Solyn handed Raviathan the sharpened blade, and with no words spoken between them, he started a careful cut down the man’s torso.

A thick layer of fat ballooned the man’s stomach. The fat required multiple cuts before the organs showed themselves. He hated cutting into the body. Though he knew the man was dead, it felt as if he was hurting him. Stupid, but Raviathan couldn’t shake the feeling that each cut caused more pain. The stone in Raviathan’s stomach turned to dead weight, a pressure that seemed to chill him at the core. That coldness started to take over, becoming numb as he continued. His hands stopped their tiny tremors as the numbness leached into his mind, making his as cold and numb as the body before him.

Whoever you are, I’m sorry.

What he and Solyn did was forbidden. If caught, they would be considered ghouls, pariahs, yet another story of sick, depraved elves. They would be hanged as an example, a warning to humans not to trust those disgusting elves, fear and hate growing a greater distance between their races. Elves were beneath humans, reviled as weak, untrustworthy, and yet there would be a hint of fear to sharpen a human’s lash against their servant’s hand, a sharper pinch to their delicate elven ears. Solyn and Raviathan’s bodies would hang for days, maybe weeks, as hateful human eyes passed over them.

Solyn pointed at the chest wall.

Rote memory took over as Raviathan started to rattle off the names of bones, muscles and organs. So much to remember. “And the sternum divides the ends of the costal cartilages. The parietal pleura covers the pleura cavity, and the visceral pleura covers the lungs.” He hurried through the review as they only had one night to explore as much as possible. “First rib,” he pointed, “the manubrium, trachea,” his finger traced down the body, “the mediastinum.”

Would the humans be wrong? Here he was, cutting into a dead body. It was monstrous. Numbness made his fear--a voice that screamed like each cut was flaying him open instead of the body before him--a distant thing. Distant but persistent, a frightened child crying in the night.

Maker, he didn’t want to be caught. He didn’t want to hang, have humans spit on him, call him every disgusting thing they could think of, have hate contort their faces when they looked at him. Even though he would be dead, the knowledge of what would be haunted him.

A small part of him didn’t want to prove the shems right, that elves were ghouls. Another part felt he would deserve the punishment. If they were caught, Raviathan had nothing to say in his defense. This would be the third body, hopefully the last, and he could put the nights he turned into a monster behind him. Leave the knowledge but have the memory locked away, like the night he first showed his magic.

Solyn continued to point in her silent test.

“The femoral vein, artery, and nerve pass medially through the gap between the inguinal ligament and underlying bone.” Since Solyn learned her arts in Tevinter, they used her native tongue to label the parts of the body. The two naturally slipped into Tevine when together.

Slowly, as he delved further and further into the body, further into the abyss his fear and self-revulsion took him, he learned the story of this man. The dwarf’s engorged, hardened liver, discolored by decades of alcohol, showed years of scars and fat. Raviathan wondered if human and elven livers were the same size.

So far they had only worked on dwarves. Rare as dwarves were on the surface, if Solyn and Raviathan were found out, the punishment would be less than if they had cut open a human cadaver. Elves took care of their own for the pyre, even the ones who died with no family. Raviathan never knew if they chose not to practice on an elven body because the risk of being found out was higher or if an elf was too personal. Though Raviathan would only be treating elves in the future, maybe Solyn understood that asking him to cut up someone he knew would slice too deeply into Raviathan’s soul.

Burns and scars thickened the man’s hands into things that appeared more like paws. The burns indicated he was probably a blacksmith or weaponsmith. Yet, as Raviathan peered, he wondered at the splatter effect of the scars lining the man’s forearm. A set of sparks or had molten metal done the damage?

The left hand was missing a pinky finger. That didn’t come from typical combat unless the man used sword and dagger rather than the more common sword and shield style. Accident or torture? More likely the second. The thick muscles on the man’s arms would be the mark of a warrior, not the lean muscles his own training conferred.

A black, geometric tattoo covered the dwarf’s forehead and down the right side of his face. Raviathan had never seen the like among his brethren or humans and guessed it was dwarven in nature, so this man wasn’t born on the surface but lived underground with the dwarves for a time. Maybe born there and something drove him to leave his home?

“What else do you see?”

The numbness gave way to growing interest. This body turned from a cold, dead thing into a puzzle. Raviathan examined the layers of muscle that told of the man’s years of work, the nerves that once carried electrical signals of burning skin, veins that bulged from blockages, and oversized lymph nodes that spoke of illness in his last weeks. One ear bumped and warped from repeated hematomas, probably from multiple injuries. A warrior’s helmet would have protected him, so not from battle, not when these were caused by multiple injuries. A beaten child or did the man wrestle? What did dwarves do for sport?

Signs of frostbite indicated hard winters, probably from his time on the surface. How far did winter extend underground for that matter? Was he exiled or did he choose to leave his home? Would he have been prepared for the cold? Could this come from a long march during winter? Possible, but rare for warriors who mostly fought campaigns in the summer. Was he forced to leave his underground home during winter and caught unprepared?

This is the body of a man without family to care for him. What stories did he have about his life? Was his family left behind? Was the man bitter or angry to drive away any who would care for him? All Raviathan had were parts of a puzzle with pieces missing. The full picture would never be put together though each cut revealed something new. The dwarf’s large intestine showed bulges. His anal cavity was worse with distentions the size of a melons. The pressure to evacuate must have caused a strain on the man’s enlarged heart.

He died alone. This is what happens when you lose your family, your friends, your kin. Maybe this man wouldn’t have cared Raviathan was learning how to heal from the desecration his body, maybe he would be pleased to know that others would stand a better chance based on what he learned now, that their lives could be saved by the dissection of his corpse. Maybe dwarves didn’t care about their bodies after death.

But Raviathan would not let himself take comfort from that idea. They were stealing from this man something far more precious than wealth. Here he lay, naked, stark, defenseless against the cruelties of Raviathan’s blade. This man’s shames, his privacy, they meant nothing. Would the Maker care what had been done to his body? Would He still accept this man’s soul? Raviathan heard stories of bodies profaned so the Maker would not take their souls.

The clinical numbness left, washed away as Raviathan stared down at a body torn apart into a mass of opened flesh. The room became too bright, too disjointed. What had he done? Oh Maker, what had he done?

He had turned this man inside out. Cut through layers of fat, sliced apart muscles like a butcher. The levator ani muscle, this man’s anus, lay flayed. Raviathan tried, tried to retreat behind words--the artery to the corpus cavernosum between the two fasciae of the urogenital diaphragm--but all he saw was the ruined flesh that had once been this man’s penis.

“Kneel. Put your head between your knees.” Solyn guided him down, held his forehead in her palm while he struggled not to vomit. He gasped deep breaths. Cold sweat broke out and he shivered at the chill.

“I’m a monster.” The words sounded like a sob.

She didn’t say anything, just held a hand at his back and one supporting his head.

They didn’t have time for this. So much of a body to learn and only one night to practice. Raviathan tried to get himself under control. He’s dead. He’s dead. He can’t feel this. His soul is with the Maker. This is just flesh, not a person.

The man drank. He was born with his kin but left, by choice or force. He had suffered. Been beaten. Lost a finger to a sadist. He worked hard, but his failing body became ill. Had he been humiliated when his body strained to evacuate? Would he be horrified to see his secrets given up to strangers?

No one cared for him in the end. Even if he died in a crowd, he died alone. 

Solyn held him until he had calmed enough the nausea left him. She held him, her face pressed against his back.

“It’s harder when a person is alive.” The harsher syllables of Tevine fitted her clinical coolness yet remained at odds with her deep passions and empathy. “You’re seeing into their body, and it’s moving. You’re responsible. Hold a living heart and it feels like a bag of worms writhing about.”

“Oh Maker, Solyn, don’t say that.”

“It’s worse when it’s someone you know. Someone you love.”

Rhys, married two years ago and already with a bright-eyed babe, worked as labor for the mason’s guild. Too much weight carried the wrong way had torn his back muscles. Once carried back to the alienage, Solyn gave the man a sleeping draught, a mixture learned from Adaia, now used for patients rather than enemies. Raviathan helped as Solyn cut Rhys’ skin, peeled back flesh to connect torn muscles. Between magic and blade, they performed a miracle.

Never one to shy from the sight of blood, that day Raviathan had been fascinated. Healing Rhys felt like the first step to healing his own heart over his mother’s death. He couldn’t go back in time to save her, but with these skills, with Solyn’s tools, he could keep his kin whole. The ignorance that made him culpable in his mother’s death would be redeemed with knowledge. He didn’t have to remain in that abyss of sorrow. Save enough lives, and maybe he could forgive himself.

Raviathan got to his feet and took a sip from the waterskin his aunt offered. “Auntie, is it possible to do an evil thing for a good reason? Will the Maker forgive you?”

“You don’t ask the easy questions, do you?” Her eyes looked old, sad, but a half smile tugged at one side of her mouth.

“What will happen to us? What if this is unforgivable? Will our souls be cast into the abyss?”

The corpse, every intimacy of his body spread out for inspection, dominated the room. She sighed, her hand taking his. “I wish I could give you certain answers, but I don’t know, and I won’t lie to you. Maybe the Maker only cares about actions, not intentions. People commit the worst crimes with good intentions. Some of those people I hope won’t ever be forgiven.”

His uncle, killed by the hunters sent after his family fleeing from slavery, lost his life to the well-intended. Raviathan hadn’t heard that story often, but he didn’t need to. It lay branded in his heart.

“If I hope not for them, I can’t ask forgiveness for myself.” Like a mother taking a child’s hand, she slipped hers into the the scarred, worn out palm of the dwarf. “I made a choice. If the Maker can’t understand that what I do, that the things I’ve learned here will help many others, then I don’t care about his judgment.”

“Auntie!” That blasphemy would cost her freedom if the wrong shem heard.

“I don’t, Rav. Theft is against the Maker’s law, even if it’s food to survive. Yet those in power make laws that force people down until they have nothing. The Chantry would say your soul is eternal, and that should be above the concerns of this world, but fuck them.”

Raviathan’s eyes went wide. His hand tightened around hers, fear mixed with the forbidden, but her words ignited a little thrill of excitement in him.

Calm defiance greeted him. “I choose. Me. Your mother taught me that when we were slaves. You’ve no idea what slavery is like, really. Stories only tell so much. To fight the hold of masters takes a force of will like fire ripping the earth apart. There are few with the will my sister had, to know what the cost will be and take that path regardless. And we paid. The comforts given favored slaves. The lives of our cousins. My dearest brother. Our parents. We made choices, Rav. I miss them. Everyday. Some think that a price too high, the ones we left behind, but you, son of my heart, live free. If I have children, they will be free. Our choices set a new path for more than us.”

She squeezed his hand. “Lords, templars, kings and gods. Power doesn’t make them right. They can enforce consequences, and you must make the choice if that’s enough to obey or if you require more.”

If shems heard her, she would be branded a heretic. She could even face charges of treason if only for lords to make an example. Her words scared him--not in the sharp sense of danger but in the quiet panic of being lost. He had enough years as an apostate to fear authority, to consider them the enemy. This brought on another set of fears that had been growing in the last years as he contemplated the matriarchs of his family.

“How do you know what’s right, Auntie? It’s simple enough to say stealing food is fine, but when people all think they have righteous intentions, who is right? I understand the benefit of this,” he said, gesturing at the body, “but that doesn’t mean we haven’t sinned. How do you know? How do you choose?”

She ran a hand through his hair, giving it a light tug at the end. “No. Not one for the easy questions. You want black and white, but the world is filled with shades of grey. It’s easy for people to accept someone’s law, or their word. Then you aren’t responsible. You have to make choices, and you will make mistakes. What happens then?”

“People get hurt.”

“Yes. Think about the surgery with Rhys, when we cut the L4 root.”

“Oh, um, repair the damage to the nerve and keep going.”

“That’s right, son of my heart. You will make mistakes as everyone does. Such is not the end of the world. Do what you can to fix things and move on.” She sighed. “We’ll discuss this further, when we’ve time. There are methods that help to make sense of things.”

“Auntie,” Raviathan’s voice cracked, and he hated his own fears, how fear made him feel smaller. “I don’t want to be cast into the abyss.”

She kissed his temple. “No one does.”

He gestured helplessly at the body. “This is profane.”

She shrugged, a gesture that was sad yet carried a sense of inevitability. “Perhaps this is so. I would not have taught you these arts so young but for the necessity of it. Given you time to decide if this path was indeed one for you. Perhaps I have done evil in forcing you. For me, we use this knowledge to help others, that many will benefit. A god who would judge this evil to outweigh further good is not one I care to follow.”

By the holy fires! His aunt continued to surprise him tonight. “You… you can’t just… not follow the Maker!” Can’t you? He… he was the Maker! What would you do? Such thoughts were like disobeying gravity. He knew his aunt to be unconventional, but this? How far did her heresy go?

She laughed at his expression. “Besides, I figure your mother would find an escape for me.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “You too.”

He couldn’t laugh but the idea made him smile. He had too much to think over.

Raviathan picked up the scalpel. They had maybe another hour before they would put the body back together. Like the others, the dwarf’s body would resemble a patchwork doll with thick, black stitchings when they finished. As long as the corpse did not fall apart in the heavy shroud when he was carted off to the pyre, no human would be the wiser for what had been done this night.

~o~O~o~

Raviathan helped pile the ancient bones. Bits of armor remained, finely wrought scales that still held a thin shimmer past the pockmarks of rust and damage. Flashes of the archaic elf’s memories echoed back to him. These warriors dedicated their lives to protect their kin. A weary anger settled in Raviathan at the violation of these elves’ bodies. The spirits that used their bones didn’t care about good or protection of those weaker than themselves. Didn’t care if they were anathema.

_The demons will ride your body! Kill everyone you love!_

He shut down the words before they could do more than whisper at him.

Maker’s mercy, he missed home with an ache that made his chest feel as if it were caving in on itself. He missed being around other elves. Even if he had been the one to move to another alienage, all elves understood each other, united by their existence under human rule. He missed the stories and songs, the flash of jewel-toned eyes in the evening, the simple comforts of food and laughter.

While he couldn’t say he hated the world outside of his alienage, not with all the wonders he’d seen, he felt brittle enough to break.

Raviathan and Leliana carefully made their way into the trap-ridden room. If only they had some means of detecting the traps, but no. They took each step with shaking nerves guided only by the brief glimpses of what they had seen before. What else lay in wait?

They marked a safe path with bits of detritus from the skeletons, relief at the end so sweet Raviathan wanted to fall to his knees.

“Quite terrible, is it not?” Leliana said. They sat together against the wall as the others made their way gingerly through the deadly room.

“Maker’s blood, I never expected anything like this when I was recruited. Darkspawn, yes. Crypts with undead? Fire traps?” Raviathan shook his head.

“The Maker will light our way. We are still here after all, yes? Through many hardships, we are still in one piece, a little scuffed up, but that just needs a bit of polish to make shine like new.”

Where the woman got her optimism, Raviathan could not guess. He chuckled, more out of stress than humor, but gave her a nudge with his shoulder. For a human and overly devout one at that, Leliana wasn’t half bad.

Raviathan handled the bow he had taken from one of the skeletons. The thing wouldn’t last. Too bad neither of them could use that fantastic bow they had found in the thrall’s cave. Still, he insisted they keep it. Raviathan and Leliana would do push-ups until one of them could claim that bow. “Should I keep this? Feels like it’ll snap at first use.”

“Couldn’t hurt. We will have to find new equipment once we’re in a half-decent town.”

“Agreed.” How were the corpses able to wield these near broken weapons without failure, yet he couldn’t keep a sword unbent or bow unbroken for more than a week? More than once, Raviathan felt as if a black raincloud hovered above only his head. He eyed Leliana’s brown-stained shoes and thought of Alistair’s ribs and told himself to stop feeling sorry for the wretched little city elf. Self pity was becoming a habit.

They got to their feet as the others approached.

“No more dead things or spiders or unexpected gouts of flame to take off my eyebrows, if you please,” Alistair said. “Just the werewolves will be fine.”

“I’ll let them know how dissatisfied you are with their lair.” Raviathan’s lip twitched involuntarily. “Tell them to make improvements.”

Alistair felt his face. “They are still there, aren’t they? I’ll look like one of those painted Orleasian kings without them.”

“King Alomore the Third was quite distinguished in his day,” Leliana said. “Lost all of his hair due to a failed assassination attempt. The poison had… unexpected results, one of which was the fashion for nobles to pluck all their hair out during the five decades of his reign.”

“Lovely.” Morrigan looked bored.

Sten grunted.

Oh, what a fine group they made. Raviathan led the way down more crumbling stairways and tunnels. Shadows retreated from Morrigan’s magelight, the cold illumination casting a depressing air over the neglected ruins. The stale air worried Raviathan, but they had little recourse.

The floor let out an alarming creak, a distant mechanism giving a rusty clank buried under stone, and the ground shuddered. Raviathan stood on tip toes, ready to pounce towards safety once he could find the source of danger. The floor shimmied, turned a few inches sideways, then screeched to a halt. Cautiously, he picked his way to solid ground.

Leliana giggled, stress making the sound high. “Well. This ruin certainly has a way of keeping you on your toes.”

“Yeah.” Raviathan returned the comment with a shaky smile. “Actually, it’s kind of amazing so many of the traps still work.”

The floor shifted again under Sten’s weight. He ran the last half, hands out to clasp Raviathan and Alistair’s as the trap groaned and finally gave. Alistair cried out as he helped haul Sten up the side of the wall, his other arm clasped around his ribs. Sten said nothing once he scrabbled up the ledge, but his stoicism had been shaken.

Where the floor once stood, a gaping hole glared out. Raviathan peered over to see a drop of ten feet end with a series of thick spikes. The cruelty of the trap astonished him. This was not meant to capture or kill. The shallow drop would leave an intruder alive to slowly bleed out from mortal wounds. This was meant to torture.

“Maker’s breath.”

Raviathan glanced at Leliana who shared his comprehension.

The other ruin Raviathan had been in had none of these defenses. Was this built in response to the attack that destroyed the ancient elves’ other home? Clearly anger had been a factor into the design of this place. Raviathan might have said paranoia more than rage, but he had glimpsed the memories of what had happened.

“We lead from now on,” he said to Leliana. “We’ve the best chance at evading these.”

She nodded, not looking happy about the order but understanding the necessity of it.

They continued, the weight of all the earth piled above them starting to make it’s presence felt to Raviathan. So far the ruins hadn’t triggered his claustrophobia the way other places had, but the respite seemed to be nearing its end. Was that tightening in his chest from the sense of feeling trapped, from fear, or from air gone toxic?

Trap after trap, each one scraping at his nerves a little more, they came to a corridor that ended in large double doors. The ornate carving of entwining branches did little to alleviate his sense of dread. Nothing in the design of this place reflected evil like the twisted manipulations of the darkspawn. Indeed, all ornamentation emulated the beauty of the forest that once surrounded this dwelling. In the semblance of wings or halla horns, or the graceful turns of a flowering tree, the artists sought to create an air of tranquility and elegance. How that dream of beauty had become tarnished with age and the unforgiven pain of invasion.

Raviathan cast a glance back at the party, the look enough to impart his concerns of the possibility of another ambush. “Let me open the doors. Stay hidden behind the walls until my signal.”

How did I get myself into this? Raviathan reached for the doorknob, fear choking him. Was the treaty worth this? Traipsing around the cursed wilds for months? Attacked from all sides by demons and bears and Maker-damned trees? Now deep in the den of their enemy? Why didn’t he try to wait out the werewolves outside? Maker, that would have been so much easier. None of this crawling around in the bowels of ruins with death surrounding them.

Why not wait? Because the werewolves could have more than a few escapes that he wouldn’t be able to find. Because the elves were suffering from the curse. Because Danyla would rather die than endure the pain indefinitely. Because Raviathan had seen the horde rising from the south, seen the archdemon during his joining, and knew that was not something he could face alone.

Maker save them. Why did Duncan chose an ignorant little elf to do it?

The door opened to an antechamber with staircases leading down on each side. The room beyond loomed with shadows obscuring the extent of its grandeur. Raviathan crept forward. So far only silence greeted him. He motioned for Leliana to follow him as he scoped out the area.

The stairs led to a sort of makeshift workroom a half flight down. Tables laden with instruments and dusty books sat unused for decades, maybe centuries. The same fascination that captured his imagination in the elven ruins he and Venger explored returned now. A globe with odd symbols etched in gold, empty vials stained with the remains of unknown liquids, instruments that Raviathan couldn’t name let alone guess the use of covered every surface. A mage’s work area? But so disorganized. Had the werewolves picked over these? No, the dust showed no marks of tampering.

With infinite care, he opened a cracked leather book. A few of the bindings snapped, but the book held. Mold stained the upper corner, destroying the art that lined the pages along with a good chunk of writing. Raviathan couldn’t decipher the script in any case. It appeared similar to the elven words on their map but with greater flourishes and exactness.

Thank the Maker the werewolves had taken no interest in this area. They might have ruined what little remained.

Morrigan’s magelight grew brighter to illuminate the large room beyond a second flight of stairs to the base. What purpose did this area have? The architecture was so odd, a laboratory bisected by stairs, then this massive, empty area?

Roots and packed earth held the domed ceiling together even as the pressure pulled the ruins apart. But… were those windows? Down so many flights of stairs… that didn’t make sense. He voiced as much to Leliana as the others shuffled closer.

“Indeed. My guess would be that this ruin has shifted a great deal over the generations. Perhaps this was once located on the side of a mountain, so this room would have opened up to the sky at some point.” She pursed her lips as she looked about. “I have seen… not like this, but something similar in Orlais. This globe, and the patterns on the floor, are for people who study the stars.”

“Study the stars?” That was… odd. “Seems a waste of time.”

“How so?”

“Well, they’re there. There are stories and you can track the movement of stars, but that’s it, isn’t it? What more do you want to know?”

“Oh, there is much scholarship in this area!” Leliana started to rattle off about viewing machines, comets, the tracking of moon phases, eclipses, and some bizarre instrument she called an astrarium.

“But what’s the point knowing all this?”

Leliana blinked at him.

“I mean… it’s useful to learn patterns so you can plant the right crop at the right time. It’s practical. But why bother with all this other stuff? What do you do with that information? And don’t get me started on people who see signs or predictions from comets because that old woman’s shit is ridiculous.”

“You don’t think the Maker speaks to us in signs?”

With a start, Raviathan remembered the rose that has spurred Leliana to join them. No, he didn’t. He had made that rose bloom, mostly on a whim, not a distant god. The Maker had turned His back on His children, first the children of the Fade because they were imperfect and therefore not worthy of their father’s love, then on His second creation because a few shems challenged His throne, thus all His second creation should suffer.

Still, in his own mind, he talked and prayed to the Maker. Did he have a right considering the resentment that had grown over the years? Did he continue to believe the Maker heard their prayers in some distant way or did he retain the habit because the alternative felt like staring into the abyss? Did he still hold on to the hope that the Maker might take his soul even though he had done wrong in his life? Resentful and angry, and yet, and yet… he couldn’t give up this desperate need for salvation.

Ugh. Raviathan rubbed his forehead. Too many questions. Maker--and now his thought of his call to the god with a twist of irony--how he longed to be able to talk with Solyn again. He missed her counsel and advice, the way she could clarify his thoughts and see new perspectives. She would have straightened out the Alistair situation months ago for him. Her death by the hands of templars instead added new layers of sorrow, anger, and betrayal upon years of fear.

“I don’t know, Leliana.” Raviathan said, feeling tired beyond reason. He waved a hand in dismissal. “Ignore me.”

They started down the final set of stairs to the lowest level when Alistair grabbed Leliana’s pack and hauled her back. “Wait,” he hissed. Sten, behind the rest, readied his sword.

Ozone snapped in the air. Raviathan, in the lead, felt the faint stirrings of energy prick at his skin. Venger’s low growl hummed with the eerie buzz of electricity.

A pile of old, rotted robes rose from the ground, cold white lights shining out of the dark skull’s sockets.

“What is it?” Raviathan whispered as he quietly retreated.

“Arcane horror.” Alistair winced as he tried to lift his shield arm. “Um… when a demon possesses a mage’s corpse.”

A chill ran down Raviathan’s spine and stilled his heart. That’s what happens to a dead mage? Unlike the other walking corpses, a malicious intelligence radiated from the smiling skull. It hissed, searching for the living souls that awakened it.

Maker’s blood!

Is that what Solyn would have become had they not found her body? What he would become if he died alone?

_The demons will ride your body! Kill everyone you love!_

An arrow slid through the air, hitting the horror in the chest. The horror screeched. Its inhuman cry echoed in the hollow room, piercing Raviathan’s ears like rusty needles driving into his brain. Raviathan unfroze but the cold fear remained. He drew the ancient bow, the wood creaking alarmingly as he shot his first arrow. His hands shook too much for the arrow to hit his target. Morrigan sent blast after blast at the horror to little effect.

Sten raced down the stairs with his sword at the ready.

“No!” Alistair called after him.

When Sten reached the floor, he screamed, body going rigid. The faint electrical impulses flared to life, cracking the air in harsh snaps. Blue light danced across the floor, the whole of the room growing taut with the currents as burst after burst of lightning sparked.

Gritting his teeth, Alistair neared the giant, indecision making him hesitate. Don’t touch his armor, Raviathan thought, but kept his focus on shooting the horror. That grinning skull seemed to stare into him as if it knew him for what he was. Looking into that horror’s eyes was like looking into the heart of a winter’s storm.

Alistair ended up holding his shield awkwardly in his good arm and using that to shove Sten back to the steps. Freed from the current, Sten gasped, dazed, but got to his feet nonetheless.

A flash of pain. Raviathan closed his eyes as liquid gushed into them. No, just his right eye. By the flames, what? He raised his hand to find the cut on his forehead. Blast it, not now. Wiping the blood away, he drew another arrow to shoot only to find the bow string had snapped. Maker damn it all!

“Fuck my life!” Raviathan hurled the bow at the horror. It spun through the air, hitting the horror in the shin. The horror hissed, orbs of cold light gathering around the creature from a spell. They danced and bobbed before entering the skeletons that lay heaped on the ground. Raviathan heard the now familiar groan as the spirits entered the bones, linking their essence to a physical form.

“I think you just made it mad.” Alistair had his sword out, his body angled so his wounded shield side was facing away from the oncoming dead. Raviathan joined him at the base of the stairs with his own weapons at the ready. The least they could do is protect Morrigan and Leliana while they kept at the horror.

“I’ll tell it a ‘your mother’ joke next.”

“‘Your mother’ joke?”

Raviathan’s dagger intercepted the sword of the first skeleton, his own blade sweeping in from the side to split the monster’s spine. “Your mother’s so old, she used to change Andraste’s dirty nappies.” Raviathan kicked at another skeleton’s shield, sending the creature back to knock down the one behind him. “Your mother’s so old, she remembers when the Tevinter Imperium was only the Tevinter hamlet.”

Alistair let out a bark of laughter. Raviathan didn’t even know what words he spoke only that he repeated the jeers from his childhood. “Your mother’s so old, she predates elves.”

“Let me try one!” Alistair swung his sword, the skeleton crumbling before him. “Um… your mother… uh… hmm… Maker, these are harder than I thought.”

The electricity fizzled away to leave the room in a shroud of darkness. The light left the skeletons. Their bones stood for a second longer before falling apart into a pile of remains. Raviathan looked around, tried to get his bearings though his overworked mind couldn’t seem to make sense of anything.

A quick self-assessment showed his overtaxed adrenal glands were failing. He kept repairing damage and rejuvenating his system with magic, yet he continued to struggle. The others didn’t have his benefit of constant magical rejuvenation, only when he could afford to use his spells without detection. Yet they didn’t seem to struggle as he did. Maker, Alistair could even joke with that, that thing staring at them.

How can I lead these people and be such a failure?

The scene came to him, bit by bits, as he recognized the horror that lay in a heap on the ground, a dozen arrows making it look like a mangled porcupine.

“Your mother’s so old, she thinks dust is new.”

His foot nudged the pile. It shifted under his boot, the bones making a dull clacking sound. The skull grinned up at him. Echos of the malice of that spirit remained, only in Raviathan’s memory now, as nothing lingered except the sad bones of a once great elf. 

He stomped on the skull, the brittle bone crumbling to fragments leaving only those teeth smiling up at him. Raviathan wanted to cry, to scream, to shake and rage and burn everything away.

“Your mother’s so old,” he whispered at the horror, “she was one of the Maker’s first children.” An ancient elven mage, left in this desolated tomb for time beyond counting. He could have been one of the first elves, one of the immortals. A desecrated skull, smiling at him from beyond the ages.

The demons will ride your body, kill everyone you love. And there is nothing you can do to stop it.

Burn the world. Burn this whole world away until everything is ash. Make it clean and start again.

This is what happens when you die alone. You will kill everyone you love. Nothing you can do to stop it.


	52. Eyes of Wolves - Unveiled

“Enough!” Swiftrunner bowed in exhaustion. He went to one knee, panting, failure written in every line of his body. The other wolves whined to see his defeat but enough blood had been spilt. The smell remained thick in the air, rusty nails and copper, hot life dripping on cold stone.

Raviathan felt just as tired, but he kept himself hardened. Much of wolven interaction focused on posturing and shows of strength. While tiresome, these feints kept wolves from fighting more often than not, thereby saving needless deaths. Though Raviathan wanted nothing more than to rest, he kept his outward expression impassive and backbone rigid. Can’t fall now. Not yet.

“We will not harm The Lady.” Raviathan’s voice was more growl, low and soft, because he had already won, and they both knew it.

“You will!” Swiftrunner whined. He shook, near tears, and so close to lashing out in a last desperate rage. Maker, how Raviathan understood that feeling.

Raviathan knelt but remained poised to defend if Swiftrunner attacked. “I understand what the Lady is. I swear to you, I will not harm her. She knows this, I think.”

A mewling squeezed out of Swiftrunner’s tight throat. “It is… as you say,” he panted. He looked up, miserable. “You swear this?”

“Yes.”

A shudder ripped through the werewolf. “Danyla has spoken of you. We will grant passage.”

He gives up everything he values to us, knowing his sanity is at stake as is the health of his pack, Raviathan thought. He stood, a swift swipe of his blades through the air rid them of the blood that remained. Such a waste of life and health. Two months ago, this would have been a victory. A treaty secured, Raviathan connecting with his wild elven kin, and the Blight turned from something that haunted his every moment, both waking and in the Fade, into something that could be defeated. Now? He just felt tired. Raviathan sheathed his weapons, another show of trust. “Lead the way.”

~o~O~o~

The cavern at the base of the last gateway loomed large. The ruins of the past held even less sway here. Sunlight filtered green through thick branches from trees that rose multiple stories overhead, the trunks of these trees so thick it would take five or more men to circle them. Instead of destroying the floor, the massive roots snaked around the sides of what remained of the room and up into the earthen walls to hold stone and sediment at bay. The marriage of nature and crafted material merged so flawlessly, Raviathan was more in awe of this room than he had been of any other in the ruin.

In dappled sunlight, surrounded by motes of gold, she stood. Ancient and new and strange beyond words, a spirit given form regarded him with the regal air of a queen. Her skin, the color of grey-green moss bleached by sun, radiated the faint but undeniable vibrancy of her forest. She extended a hand made of long, thin twigs to her champion, a gesture of compassion and forgiveness. Swiftrunner knelt by her side, his rage gone, to be replaced by deepest devotion.

Haunting black and gold eyes regarded Raviathan. The breath stolen from him, Raviathan didn’t feel the steps he took as he approach her. Of all the glories of the forest he had beheld, nothing matched the the goddess before him, for surely she was a kind of god, primitive and eternal. She stood naked and proud with the austere strength of a granite mountain.

“Lady.” In his heart, that word became part prayer.

“Too much blood has been spilt,” she said in a voice that echoed in the Fade as much the cool winds of the forest. “On both sides.”

“A sentiment I agree with. But you also speak of the elves then.”

“I do.” Her long fingers of twigs stroked Swiftrunner’s scruff, the werewolf’s eyes at half mast. “Zathrian sent you, but he did not tell you the whole story.”

“How do you know what he did and did not tell me?”

“Because he would not. Did you know this curse of the werewolves is his doing?”

“I’ve suspected for some time now.”

Her eyes narrowed with alien cunning. “When I saw you… yes.”

“Zathrian trapped you, Forest Spirit, made you into Witherfang, and so started the curse of the werewolves.” A murmur of surprise sounded behind Raviathan, probably Alistair, but Raviathan ignored him for now.

A sad smile touched her lips. “Indeed, yet the reason he did this, he did not share.”

“No.” What Zathrian had done took enormous power, and for all the elder elf’s wisdom, Raviathan was certain the Dalish Keeper had used blood magic. “To use that kind of power…” It could have killed him. Zathrian had to know what he had risked. “He must have had his reasons.”

“This forest is covered in blood, as you’ve well seen in your journeys here. Shadows of the past linger for age after age, the Veil thinned in some places to be almost meaningless. Old hatreds and angers, death and greatest sorrow, so marks the meetings between humans and elves.”

The tiredness Raviathan felt seemed to crash down on him. No, not the Dalish, too. But of course, no elf was free of humans. For all the pains the Dalish took to keep moving constantly, to hide from humans, why had he never seen how they must have been hurt to keep their nomadic life? Not the last of the free elves, please. Not the proud ones. Let there be someplace elves can be free.

“His children,” Swiftrunner said. His growl of a voice sounded harsher with emotion, a counterpoint to The Lady’s own wind song. “Humans captured them. Tortured the boy. Killed him. Raped the girl and left her for dead. The Dalish found what was left.” 

Words spoken so plainly, so matter of fact, but Raviathan felt that fire inside start to twist to a whirlwind.

No. No, his mind railed. That isn’t suppose to happen to the Dalish. They’re suppose to be free of all that! The pain he felt from seeing his best friend, his beloved cousin, broken, came back in full force. The image of her, mouth stretched in agony, the trail of that sick shem’s seed as he pulled himself off laughing, the small spatter of blood on her thigh, it cut into his brain like a white hot knife. And that dirty shem had laughed. He laughed at her, at me, he laughed at all of us, every elf to walk Thedas. Nola, even dead, defiled. Blank eyes staring at nothing as her body jerked from the shem using her.

Swiftrunner continued, unaware of the effect his words had. “When she found she was with child, she killed herself.”

Raviathan could feel himself shaking with rage. It’s not right! My family was never safe, but there are suppose to be some of my kin who are free. The Dalish were the only memory of what we were, what we should still be. Why can’t we be allowed to be free? Everything, our language, our faith, our freedom, it keeps getting taken away. Why us? Why always us? Raviathan ground out in a low snarl, “They deserved what they got.”

Dimly, he was aware that all eyes in the room focused on him. “They deserved it!” His voice blasted through the chamber. The magic here, suffused in the wood and earth, it would bend to him or he would crush it. This injustice would not stand.

The fire burned inside, beneath his feet, in the sky, all that fire linked into him, and he could feel the wild strands of it snaking out of his control.

_Burn burn burn!_

Control. He had to control. His fists shook, his heart ached with the strain, but he kept that fire within him.

The Lady approached him slowly. Her twig fingers caressed his cheek, his angry tears lingering on the twisted wood. The rage he felt drained away like water flowing from a breaking dam as he looked up into her strange black and gold eyes. Her eyes were like night and sunlight, a forest’s spirit made flesh. The Lady said, her voice filled with all the shifting aspects of her nature, “No doubt. Through me, Zathrian found his revenge, whether I willed it or not. The crimes of those men were terrible, but they were committed by people who have been dead for generations.”

He saw the forest again as he had as a wolf. There was a wholeness to the life and death cycle of the forest, compassion and love and violence and death. The forest, life and death and life again, always triumphed. It would break apart the ruins and reclaim what was taken. He had a swimming moment of watching the sun through leaves shivering in the breeze as if the wind were its own living thing. It had become unbalanced when the dead were trapped in living things and not allowed to stay dead. Even the creeping taint in the land matched his own. Her twigged hand caressed his long hair as a mother would a beloved child's, and Raviathan let her. “We seek an end to the curse. Its effects have spread far beyond its intention.”

“What happened to you, Lady? When Zathrian changed you.”

“I was rage. Little more than a demon trapped in the form of a wolf. I infected others with that rage. I have few memories of that time, snatches of red-tinged images. Time passed, and I felt the sorrow and regret of those who had turned when they attacked their own families. Only when my own rage ebbed was I able to see again.”

Raviathan looked down as he thought. The werewolves had come closer during the exchange. All but Swiftrunner were hunched down looking up at him. They were begging him he realized. They were submitting themselves to him for guidance, acknowledging him as leader as they did the Lady. He and the Lady were the alphas, and it was in their hands the werewolves placed their fate. The wolf inside him regarded the werewolves. The soft snick of sliding metal sounded behind him. “Hold,” he called to his companions who were all looking at the werewolves nervously. He realized from their perspective it looked like the werewolves were reading for an attack. “At ease,” Raviathan told them. He looked back at the Lady. She smelled of pine and rivers, coming snow and summer rain. “The curse is a powerful one.”

“Yes,” she said. “While I do not think his death would end the curse, his life is dependent upon it, and I believe his death would play a role in ending it.”

Raviathan took a long breath. “You would be willing then?”

She looked at him with the full acceptance of her role as well. They both knew she would cease to exist as she did now. “I would.”

Raviathan nodded slowly. “Then I will speak to Zathrian.” Maker, he felt tired. All that rage inside him hissed like a fire in the rain, spiteful at the world that did not let it burn.

Swiftrunner looked from the elf to the Lady. He went to his knees pleading in his rough voice. “No my Lady. Please. This could be a trap. You can not trust the elf. Do not… do not sacrifice yourself.”

The Lady stroked his head and uttered soft words of comfort. Raviathan looked at his companions and inclined his head toward the stairway that would lead them to the surface. The party watched the werewolves nervously as they left, but Raviathan understood the wolves. They would not attack. In the stairway up Leliana whispered, “You aren’t handing Zathrian over for them to kill, are you?”

Raviathan turned melancholy eyes to her. “No, Leliana. I will not betray him or the other elves.”

“But,” she asked pleading to him as Swiftrunner had to the Lady, “you asked if she was willing?”

He squeezed her arm gently in reassurance. “For the curse to end, she will have to cease to be as she is.”

“Cease to be,” she echoed watching him.

Raviathan turned so all of his companions could see him. “The curse. Zathrian bound his own life energy to create it, but in doing so, trapped the spirit of the forest in a physical form. You’ve seen the trees, how they go mad. So did the spirit, though she has since regained her mind.”

Alistair said, “But I thought Witherfang…”

“Witherfang the wolf and the Lady of the Forest are the same,” Raviathan answered. “When the curse is ended, she will no longer have consciousness. Her memories, her emotions, all that she knows of this life, will be gone. She will go back to simply being the Forest. She and Zathrian are bound. It would mean an end to them both.”

Alistair and Leliana were both dumbstruck. Leliana was the first to regain her wits. “How can you possibly know all this?”

“The Spirit showed me.”

They all had their suspicions though Morrigan’s stemmed for different reasons. He could see it in the thoughtful cock of her head.

“Wait, so we’re going back to the Dalish camp?”

Raviathan continued to climb and wished Alistair would be quiet.

“You don’t think the werewolves would use this time to escape?”

“No, Alistair.”

“Hold on. I think we deserve some answers here.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. Raviathan couldn’t shake this heavy exhaustion that weighed him down like a wet woolen blanket or the host of impotent fury, hate, and deep pain that lingered like poison in his blood. Maker, it was taking all he had not to vent his rage, but on who? The Lady was right. The men who had done that evil died generations ago. Raviathan didn’t hate the werewolves, understood they were just as much victims as any in this travesty.

In Zathrian’s place, Raviathan had found his vengeance. Every human involved on the day of his wedding had either burned or bled.

The exhaustion that weighed on him was the knowledge that these were only drops of rain in the storm. What happened to him, to Zathrian, happened to elves every day across Thedas, for age upon age. There was no end of violence against his people, so what did their revenges matter? Giving up wasn’t an option, either, but Raviathan couldn’t see an end to this bitterness.

“Alistair.” So tired, and I don’t have any patience left for you. “Enough.” He took three more steps before his conscience nagged him into more, but he didn’t turn around. “You have a right to your questions, but I don’t have the energy right now.”

He could practically feel the templar’s annoyance, which yelled at him in its own way.

The way out led to a plateau overlooking the vast forest. From here, Raviathan could see how the ruins molded to the landscape, the cliff side still strong with crags and sheer paths. A star pattern remained in the marble they stood on, just visible under the layers of earth and leaves.

Examining one of those odd astrariums, Zathrian waited. Raviathan caught Morrigan’s side-eyed glance. He gave the tiniest of nods before raising a hand for the others to stay where they stood. He and Morrigan approached.

“Do you have his heart?”

“No, Zathrian.”

While the elder elf had never been patient, Raviathan was still surprised by the rage he saw.

“Then what are you doing here? I need his heart!”

“That didn’t sound ghoulish,” Alistair muttered from the back. Zathrian sneered at the comment, his anger propelling him forward.

Raviathan stepped in front, his hand out to calm the Keeper. “Zathrian. You knew where the werewolves lived. You could have told us.”

Those pale eyes turned on him. “Have you sided with those beasts then?”

“No, and they are not beasts. There are infected elves among them who want to be free.”

“What are you saying?”

Raviathan held his breath. How close was Zathrian to turning on them? “I have talked to the werewolves.”

“Talked,” Zathrian spat the word. “With vicious animals?”

“Yes. Will you listen to them? There is much that needs to be settled.”

“So they asked you to bring me to them? To lure me into a trap?”

“On my word, Zathrian, I will defend any who is attacked, but there must be a mediation. Your clan can’t go on with this threat, and the werewolves want an end to the conflict as well.”

Zathrian stepped in close, his words low so only Raviathan could hear. “You are a child.”

Raviathan returned his gaze, found he could stare back at that hatred and the years of accumulated power with ease. “You think life as a city elf leaves any of us young for long?”

Zathrian grew measuring. “The elf I met only months ago was eager to please.”

Wind caressed Raviathan’s hair, the warmth of summer a promise not yet fulfilled. He turned to face the sun, his vision red through his closed eyes. Clear as hope, Raviathan’s second heart shone with love, his own eternal sun forever bright inside him. “What do you think happens to ideals, Zathrian? When they die, do they still live on in the Fade? Are they reborn in the hearts of children or do we darken both worlds with cynicism?”

The breeze awoke the wolf inside Raviathan. He smelled sap and pine, dust and loaming earth, animals and birds and all the life therein, blood hot in the cool of early spring.

“I misjudged you when we met.”

Raviathan opened his eyes to see Zathrian studying him. Raviathan turned, and Zathrian followed without any further words.

The tension in the chamber below ratcheted up when Zathrian entered. The werewolves growled, the pack gathering around their Lady. Zathrian kept his staff high, a clear threat of retaliation at a second's notice.

“So here you are, spirit.”

At Zathrian’s words, Swiftrunner rushed forward. He stopped bare inches before Raviathan’s sword. Their eyes met, measuring. A low growl from Swiftrunner was Raviathan’s warning. The werewolf batted away Raviathan’s blade, his bulk bearing down, only to find his momentum twisted around the elf and breath stolen as he landed on his back.

“Enough!” Raviathan yelled.

“They turn on you as quickly as me,” Zathrian said. Anger couldn’t cover the smugness of his tone. “They are as savage as ever. Their monstrous forms mirror their twisted hearts.”

“Zathrian, I know what you did.” Maker, Raviathan felt tired. “You haven’t found the longevity of our ancestors. It’s through the curse you live.”

“You have suffered at the hands of humans. Do you think they have changed? This one attacked you, unprovoked. There is no end to their bestial nature, no matter what their form takes.”

“Do you not recognize Danyla?” At her name, a werewolf in the back mewled. “You are the Keeper of the clan. Their protector. This vendetta is hurting everyone.”

“You would lecture me?” Zathrian’s staff flashed. “You did not see what they did! When… when I held my daughter’s body… No!”

“Is pain the only reason you will not end the curse?” The Lady’s brows arched pointedly. “Your death would not end the curse, but your life relies on it’s existence. Is this truly justice you seek?”

“All I need is the heart of Witherfang, and my people will be free! Warden, there is no reason to spare these beasts. With his heart, I can protect my clan. If you will not, then get out of my way.”

“How long will you let this curse go on?” Raviathan asked. “Another century? Two? Five? What is your life worth if all you do is continue pain?”

“I will not end the curse!” Zathrian stepped back, energy flowing from his staff. “They deserve to suffer for what they’ve done!”

Motes of light fell from the staff as he slashed it in a wide arc. Lighting cracked and the hall turned into chaos. The Veil, so fragile already, tore open like fine paper. Spirits seeking a form so they could experience true life entered the trees. Bound in the prison of reality, they ripped up their roots. Bark and branch limbs creaked in a horrid groan of pain. They ached to be free of their prisons, would break themselves to be free again, and in that jealous rage, sought revenge on all living creatures who had what they never would.

Demon shades followed the mad spirits. Little more than shadows given substance, terror and fear made real, they snaked across the floor to claw at anything with a spark of real life. A single malevolent white eye, flat as a dead fish, glared with all the sanity of a nightmare. Long, impossibly thin arms, ended in long talons designed to flay their victims. A wide gaping maw along its torso, complete with row upon row of sharp teeth, looked to swallow its victims whole.

With the shades unleashed, Zathrian ran to the back of the chamber for cover. The werewolves circled around The Lady, desperate to protect their saviour. Witherfang stood in the place of the Lady, terrified, vulnerable in the form Zathrian forced her into. A magical binding slivered into existence around the wolves. Witherfang bounced and struggled, but the bonds only flexed to tighten again like a snare.

Raviathan’s heart fell as he stared at the pandemonium.

Sten and Alistair had their swords out, hacking at the possessed trees, but the blades only scratched the thick bark. Pale as a ghost, Leliana had her daggers up against a shade but was losing her fighting composure to terror. Morrigan had frozen one shade, but it only slowed the thing down. Venger howled and leaped on the shade as Morrigan backed away. Fear gripped her, making her unable to focus her spells.

Over the din, Raviathan heard Zathrian chanting a complicated spell. They were overwhelmed. A tree knocked Sten back. He yelled as the branches raked at him, tearing his face and armor. Alistair’s blade barely penetrated the resistant bark as another tree started to attack him from behind. He screamed as a branch slammed into his back.

His pack was going to die. No time.

Fighting the habits ingrained throughout his life, Raviathan summoned his will and reached into his second heart. His mind and will gave it shape, his fingers danced in a quick glyph visible as brilliant light in his mind’s eye. In seconds he had completed the spell. Lines of azure-tinged force encapsulated Zathrian, lifting him off his feet. The elder hung suspended as if an invisible cord were holding his limp form up by the chest.

Another quick spell, Raviathan shaking with the effort to allow this blatant use of his magic, charged his allies’ weapons. Their weapons now struck with the power of a sledgehammer upon the cut of blades. The trees shook and splintered under the force of their charged weapons.

Fire ripped from Raviathan’s hands in his final spell. It flowed forth with a strangely liquid curve, chaos controled. The tree attacking Sten groaned as fire crisped its leaves and caught along its branches. The spirit tree retreated in confusion as the fire spread. The heat boiled the sap inside the wood, causing it to pop. The sap sizzled, accelerating the spread of the fire. Sten stared at the tree in horrid fascination.

“Get up, Sten!” Raviathan yelled as his blades drove into the shade attacking Leliana.

The qunari heaved himself up, gaining his composure as he did so. He ran across the chamber to attack the tree at Alistair’s back. Raviathan yelled, “Leliana!” to get her to focus. “There’s no time. Hurry!”

The woman was still in shock. At least she was getting her blades up in defense as Raviathan continued to slash from the shade’s rear. It rose up in an odd somersault, sending both of them back, and lashed forward at the bard. Leliana backpedaled, her blue eyes wide, forcing the shade to extend its reach for her. Raviathan took the opportunity to sweep his sword down followed by his dagger into the shade’s spine. It emitting an odd chull-chulling rattling sound as it died.

Leliana shook with reaction. Raviathan was about to go after the second shade when he saw her standing numbly, her blades quavering. He ran over and grabbed her arm, shaking her slightly so she would look at him. If he let her stop now it would be harder to keep her going in the next battle. Even if she didn’t do well, as long as she continued to fight, she’d be less likely to freeze in the future. He fixed his gaze on her, his grip tightening. “It’s not over. You can do this, Leliana.”

She nodded weakly, and he pulled her towards the tree Sten was attacking. Taking a few seconds to gather herself, she launched at the possessed tree. Morrigan and Venger had nearly finished with the final shade, and the three finished hacking the two remaining trees.

Silence, eerie in the aftermath of battle, settled, broken only by the heavy breathing of the surviving combatants.

Bloody lacerations covered Alistair and Sten. Alistair fell to his knees, pain twisting his face into a grimace. His splintmail armor was in ruins, bent and torn to uselessness. Sten’s iron plate fared little better. Morrigan had ugly but relatively shallow slashes across her mostly bare front and one arm. Venger whimpered though he had no obvious wounds.

Raviathan set to healing spells starting with Alistair and Sten. Even now he had to fight against his instincts to hide his magic. Morrigan’s cuts closed. Venger’s bruised organs knit under Raviathan’s touch.

With a small groan of pain Alistair shed his damaged splintmail. Alistair and Sten were both glaring at him. Leliana looked pale, but she was no worse for wear. Alistair spat out, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Let us finish this. We can talk afterwards.”

In response, Alistair threw down his useless armor and crossed his arms looking away. Leliana and even Morrigan looked uncomfortable.

Raviathan couldn’t meet the eyes of the others as he cast spell after spell in full, agonizing view. He would have to deal with the fallout soon enough, he knew, but not yet. A few more minutes of pretending everything was normal, even though he felt a coward for putting off the inevitable. Besides, he had more important concerns that came first. He needed to be a leader now, and facing the others would cut him to his knees soon enough.

A quick glance at Zathrian showed the elf was going pale from the constricting force of the spell. Raviathan pressed his lips as he glared at the other elf. Raviathan eased the force holding Zathrian. The Keeper would die soon otherwise. Zathrian crumpled to the floor, spent.

Raviathan felt as if his heart would tear apart as he looked at the Keeper. It crushed him to see the venerable elf in defeat, at his hand no less. Raviathan want to comfort Zathrian as he would his own hahren, wanted to take away the hurt as Zathrian’s pain cut into him as well. He wanted to give the Keeper space as if he could take back his witnessing of the elf’s humiliation, humiliation caused by his own hand. And knowing he had caused that humiliation twisted the pain inside him all the more, as if he had taken away his own people’s pride. Zathrian had been wronged, horribly wronged, and Raviathan felt as if he had become every shem who had transgressed against his people.

Turning his conflicting emotions aside, Raviathan faced the Lady. “Lady, are you well?”

“I am,” she replied, sounding like water and wind. “And Zathrian?”

Feeling every inch the betrayer, Raviathan knelt by Zathrian and laid a hand on the old elf’s shoulder. Zathrian turned up enough to show his face, twisted in hate with a snarl as vicious as any of the werewolves, ready to spew a vitriolic curse. He stopped as he looked into Raviathan’s face, and sorrow started to overtake him. I have stolen my people’s pride, Raviathan thought.

“The men who hurt your children are dead.” Raviathan tried to be as gentle as he could be. “It’s now your clan who are suffering. Please, Zathrian.”

“No,” he breathed. “I… I can not. I have lived with this for too long. I can not… can not change now.”

The Lady approached, kneeling nearby but out of reach. “Zathrian.”

When the Keeper struggled to sit up, Raviathan helped him so his back was leaning against the wall. He continued to hold the Keeper’s hand. Zathrian, pale and drawn, asked, “And what of you, Spirit? This would mean an end to you as well. Surely you don’t want that.”

“No?” she asked. “I have experienced life as I never could before. Hope and fear. Love and pain. All the joys and sorrows of this world. I am grateful to you, my creator. But all I desire is an end to this suffering.”

Raviathan bowed low in supplication and held Zathrian’s hand to his forehead. “Please, Zathrian. You’ve watched over your clan for so long. You’ve done everything you could to protect them. They’re dying. The children you helped raise are in pain. Let this end in mercy.”

Zathrian seemed to deflate before them. Finally he squeezed Raviathan’s hand and said, “Help me up.”

“So you’ll do it?” the Lady asked hopefully. “You will end the curse?”

Zathrian stood and patted Raviathan’s hand. “Yes, Spirit. It… it is time.”

The werewolves huddled around the Lady, reaching out hesitantly to touch her one last time. Raviathan hugged Zathrian with a whispered, “Thank you,” before stepping away.

The Lady cupped Swiftrunner’s cheek and kissed him gently as Zathrian raised his staff one last time. The spell was almost anti-climatic. There were no great blasts of sound or light. There were no grand gestures. For all the tumult and pain, the curse ended with a sigh. Zathrian’s staff clattered to the floor as his body crumpled. The Lady became indistinct as shadows. She seemed to become rustling leaves that blew away on the breeze, her motes of shadow fading away like smoke.

The werewolves howled as their bodies melded seamlessly back to human and elven forms. They were nude, men and women both, and retained their amber wolf eyes. Most seemed to not notice their lack of clothing as they looked about in stunned silence. A few couples embraced as the reality of the ended curse settled into them. Swiftrunner touched his chest, gazed at his hands, disbelief warring with sorrow. A woman knelt and started weeping in relief. She sobbed, “Human. We’re human again.”

“The nightmare is is over,” a man with shaggy brown hair said, embracing his friend.

Swiftrunner came up to him, his eyes old with sorrow and gratitude. “The rage is gone… and we’re human again.”

An elven woman neared Raviathan, hesitated for an instant before clasping him in a tight embrace. Unlike the others, she had a piece of clothing, a scarf, tied around her neck. “Mythal’s grace. I can go back.”

Danyla. Raviathan held her, a little embarressed by her nudity. Given the solemnity of the moment, he did not want his body’s reaction to be seen. By the fires! She was married, had children grown to near adulthood. Thank the Maker for layers of armor. Danyla stepped back and wiped at the tears running down her face.

“What will you do now?” Raviathan asked of the humans. He felt older. So much had happened and he was mourning the loss of the Lady as well. The curse was finished, and the Dalish would recuperate, for which he was glad, yet a part of him felt shattered in a way he couldn’t articulate.

The Dalish, idealized and misunderstood, remained one of the few hopes among city elves, that their race’s history would be cared for by someone, that they were not a lost people after all. The Dalish were more dream than real in the city, but they were the rare hero, something for the city elves to look up to, to remind them that as low as their lives could be, there were elves who were strong and independent. Raviathan had willfully ignored how the Dalish had to hide in their own way, by constantly moving to keep themselves free of shems. Nowhere were his people safe. Not from shems, not from him.

Swiftrunner said heavily, “I suppose we should leave the forest for now.” It seemed as much a declaration of mourning as it did intention. “Perhaps find other humans. Make new lives for ourselves.”

“Maker light your path.”

Swiftrunner and he exchanged clasped wrists, and then, just as swiftly as their fates had changed, the new humans turned as a pack to lope out of the chamber. Raviathan watched them go, wondering how much wolf they would retain over the years. Would be able to integrate in human lands or had they been so changed they would need to found their own village?

“Will you return to the clan with us?” Danyla asked.

“If you’re ready, go on ahead. I think we need a day or two of rest.”

Nodding her understanding, she and the other elves gathered up bits of equipment left in the cave. Weapons, scraps of clothing, enough to make their travel through the forest defensible. The elves left at a slower pace, some holding hands as they exited after the humans.

Raviathan’s thoughts trailed off as he looked about the chamber and his companions. Well, at least the wolves were settled. “Best to make camp here for the night. It’s more defensible than the forest, and we all need rest.” Raviathan took a hatchet out of his pack and started breaking up the trees for a fire.

“That’s it?” Alistair demanded. “That’s all you’re going to say? Just how long were you going to keep your magic a secret?” Before Raviathan could answer Alistair continued, “Because it’s not like it was something important you were keeping from us. Something we might need to know.”

Morrigan scoffed, “Of course you would act like a petulant child about it.”

“Wait.” Alistair looked back and forth between the two, comprehension dawning. “Morrigan knew?” Alistair asked as the pitch of his voice increased.

Leliana kept her own tone carefully neutral. “I think that’s obvious now. He’s the one who’s been doing all the healing. Not Morrigan.”

“How do you know that?” asked Alistair.

“Because she didn’t heal herself after the fighting was done,” Leliana stated matter of factly.

“Did you know, too?” Alistair sounded like he was on the verge of shouting.

“I was as in the dark as you.” She turned to Raviathan. “I don’t know how much magic you’ve been doing without our knowledge, but I think it would have been helpful to not hide it.”

“I had my reasons,” Raviathan replied. “For…”

Alistair interrupted, “You had reasons. This I have to hear.”

Raviathan raised an eyebrow at the templar. He didn’t speak for a moment. Alistair’s anger was justified, but Raviathan couldn’t risk insurrection. “You, for one.”

“Me?” Alistair flushed. “That’s rich. I’m the big bad templar, is that it?”

Raviathan made an effort to hold on to his temper. Morrigan interceded, her contempt ready to turn venomous. “You really have no idea do you. Templars hunt down apostates in case you have forgotten. You’ve no idea what it’s like to have to constantly be on the lookout for fools like yourself who see no difference between an apostate and a maleficar. We’re all the same. Something outside your control.”

“Of course it is,” Alistair scowled back at her. “You’ve got me pegged. It’s obvious I was going to turn you in first chance I got. Gee, why didn’t I do that at Lothering when all the other nasty templars were about? Save myself the headache of hearing you for the last two months. Just too stupid I reckon.”

“Alistair, would you please calm down and listen,” Raviathan said. Alistair crossed his arms, but something in his down-turned head made it seem as if he was being more receptive than his body language stated. “I grew up in an alienage less than a mile from a Chantry full of templars. If I ever once lost control of my magic or let anyone outside my immediate family know, I would have probably been killed. If I were lucky, I would have been taken and never allowed outside that prison of a tower. I would have never seen my family again.” That last statement made Alistair flinch. “I have cousins who were taken. Once they were discovered, the templars came and they just disappeared. It was as if they had never been born. It’s a secret I’ve kept all my life.”

“But why hide it from me? I’m not a templar.” The wounded tone in Alistair’s voice shamed Raviathan. He really had misjudged Alistair. The man was no master manipulator, not with the way he wore his heart on his sleeve. “Besides, you’re a Grey Warden. The Chantry doesn’t have any authority over you anymore.”

Raviathan slumped on one of the giant gnarled roots. If he straddled the thing his feet would have lost contact with the floor. “There are only two of us. At first I didn’t know you, and I didn’t know what you would do.” He added with regret, “I should have known better. Especially after Lothering. I should have trusted you with this. It’s just… you have to understand. Most children get frightened by stories of darkspawn or werewolves. Parents use it as a way to make their children behave, but most children never see darkspawn or werewolves. It’s just an abstract fear to them. Templars are real and immediate. I had seen them, and I knew they had power over me that I couldn’t fight. And the consequences were just as real.” Raviathan sighed. “If it makes you feel any better, there’s only one person outside this room who knows I’m a mage.”

“Really?” Alistair’s hurt remained, but at least he listened.

“If there are any more who know, they’re better at keeping secrets than I am,” Raviathan said.

Alistair harrumphed at the statement. “Did Duncan know?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Raviathan nodded. “We were attacked by darkspawn on our way to Ostagar. Duncan left to take care of them, told me to hide. It was dark, and I had no idea where he was or what was attacking me. I killed one, but that just made it easier for the other one to find me. Duncan saw me when a shriek knocked me on my back, and I used a fire spell in panic.” Raviathan gave Alistair a bitter smile. “He was quite pleased when he found out. Wanted more mages in the Wardens, but there was some ugliness at the Tower that kept him from recruiting. I was… rather upset I let anyone find out. He promised to keep it a secret until after my Joining.”

“You killed a shriek?” Alistair asked. His face was tipped down, one eyebrow raised as he looked at Raviathan. Hurt, accusation, resentment, and anger made themselves known in that look. Raviathan knew he wasn’t forgiven, but this was a start.

“That’s what Duncan called it.”

“They’re rare. I’ve never seen one.” After another moment of contemplation, Alistair sighed. “So. You’re the one who’s been doing all the healing.”

“Yes.”

Alistair seemed like he wanted to ask more but instead sat with his back against a wall, head propped in a hand, looking as tired as Raviathan felt. Time would tell if they could work together or not. Best to give Alistair some space for now.

Eager to break the awkward moment, Leliana gathered branches for a fire. In an over-bright voiced, she asked, “What can magical healing do? It seems certain injuries can not be cured so easily.”

Weary, Raviathan got to his feet to help. Morrigan and Sten settled into tasks, Morrigan preparing an area for the fire while Sten began to methodically sharpen his blade. Alistair sat with his eyes closed, pain lining his face. Venger padded over to lie next to him and laid his large head on Alistair’s lap. Alistair scratched the mabari’s ears absently, keeping his eyes closed.

“Bruises or torn flesh is the easiest to treat,” Raviathan explained. “You body knows what’s wrong and what state it should be in. All I need to do is send it energy, channeled for repair, and your body does the rest. Something like wrenched limbs are harder. It’s like the channels in your body get damaged so it doesn’t know what to do to heal itself. Then broken bones need not only healing but to be set, and that’s more difficult as it requires more layers of magical healing. If you’ve ever had a broken bone repaired by a physician, it will heal, but you’ll have aches during bad weather because of the bones setting improperly. That can happen with magical healing too, so you have to be very careful to make sure the set is exactly right. Does that make sense to you?”

“I… think so,” she replied as she pulled off the smaller branches of the tree.

“There’s so much that can go wrong with a body, it’s amazing. A lot of illnesses are alive, so if you don’t channel healing energy perfectly, you can make a person sicker.”

“Illnesses are alive?” Leliana wasn’t the only one who looked startled by the idea.

Raviathan nodded with slow deliberation to emphasize his point. “There’s a lot more to healing than a little finger wiggling.”

“I… yes. I expect there is. But, how? Like a spirit?”

“No, not like a spirit. Um, well.” Raviathan bit his lower lip as he tried to put the words he understood in Tevinter and the complexities of his training into a simple form so Leliana would understand. “More like… a parasite that’s so small you can’t see it.”

Leliana shivered. “I do not think I care to know more.”

Together, they built the wood for a fire. Instead of bothering with flint and steel, Raviathan used his magic to light their camp fire. He lowered his voice so only Leliana could hear him. “You don’t seem bothered by magic.”

Leliana gave him a knowing look. “I have worked with apostates before.”

Thank the Maker they would be leaving this forest soon, Raviathan thought as he studied their remaining foodstuffs. He felt as if his stomach would start gnawing at him if he didn’t appease it soon. He made dumplings out of the last of their flour and added the last bit of hard cheese to the mix. The thin rations of late never satisfied him. He debated again about taking a larger portion, but that wasn’t fair, and he had already abused whatever trust he had with the group.

Sighing, he dished out bowls for the rest. Alistair took his without acknowledgment. Sten though. Raviathan expected stoicness, maybe disappointment or a little anger, not the hate that flared from those lavender eyes. It froze him so that Sten had to reach up to take his plate.

He growled, “Sarabas are leashed. Your mouth would be sewn shut.”

A chill of profound horror shivered down Raviathan’s spine. His mouth sewn shut?

He had to fight not to touch his mouth. Sewn shut? Raviathan could feel the weight of those lavender eyes on his back as he sat by the fire.

That night Raviathan dreamed of darkspawn taking him apart and putting him back together with thick black stitches. Cruel laughter. Yellow, scraggly teeth. His mouth hurt.

Not allowed to scream.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Concrit and reviews welcome.


End file.
